


avenues of light (guide us home)

by junes_discotheque



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dating, Depression, Drug and Alcohol Use, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Smut, Multi, Sugar Daddy Idri, holiday fluff, like super mild, parental illness (canonical), royal au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: As Prince of Fillory, a remote mountain country, most of Quentin's life has been decided for him - including his upcoming engagement to Lady Alice, the ambitious and capable Countess. In order to host a spectacular New Year's Eve gala - and to raise money for a new hospital in their homeland - they recruit the help of Eliot, a promoter and event planner for an upscale Manhattan club, and Margo, a personal shopper and stylist for New York's socialites. Neither are sure what to make of the odd foreign royals, and a few chance encounters lead to places they never expected.As the gala, and Quentin and Alice's engagement, approaches, both Quentin and Alice have choices to make between their commitment to their duty or their desire to follow their own hearts - and Eliot and Margo must decide if they, too, believe in happy endings.
Relationships: Idri/Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn, Past Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[art] avenues of light (guide us home)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050376) by [ruinscollector (fluffy_bean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffy_bean/pseuds/ruinscollector). 



> Thank you so much to my incredible artist ruinscollector and her amazing, gorgeous work for this fic (and for putting up with my slowness and nonsense), and to my beta (u know who u are- love u). And a special thanks to the organizers of this challenge. I actually wrote a lengthy story set in an AU that's mostly fluff! Amazing.
> 
> This fic is based on the movie “Royal New Years Eve”, which was hella cute, even if it was about straight people.

Some thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic, Alice Quinn, Countess, puts down her book. It’s an unusual enough gesture to get the attention of the woman sitting opposite her, who offers a tight-lipped smile and abandons the mess of papers strewn over the table.

“Nervous?” she asks. Alice scowls.

“I _have_ been to New York before, Julia,” she says. “I even _lived_ there for three years. When I was studying. _At Columbia._ ” A fact that she had made sure was included in every profile about her for the last six months, since the tiny, mountainous nation she calls home officially applied for United Nations membership. She couldn’t stop the Western press from calling her country remote, or isolated, or poor, or _woefully unmodernized_ (because, really, all those things are entirely true) but she would be damned if they said the same things about _her_.

Julia just puts her right hand up. “I didn’t mean that,” she says. “I just meant – there’s going to be a lot of eyes on the two of you, because of Q’s benefit.”

_Q._ Prince Quentin, who hates media attention, and crowds, and being around people _in general,_ but was so moved by a recent visit to a children’s hospital that he wrangled Julia into organizing a benefit in America, in _New York City,_ to raise money for a brand new, state-of-the-art facility. Leaning on the fact that their country really _is_ “woefully unmodernized” to convince wealthy Americans, starry-eyed at the very concept of royalty even as they pretend to be above such antiquated government, to open their pocketbooks. It’s nothing but fancy begging, and Alice hates the idea. Or _would_ hate it, if it weren’t for how Quentin had looked at her when he asked. And so, she’d agreed, and insisted they _do it right._ New Year’s Eve. Spectacular gala. Invite all the _right_ people (Alice has magazines) and forge _proper_ alliances. She may have also dropped hints about a possible engagement, to Quentin and to the foreign press, and to _Julia,_ because he’s hopeless at picking up even the most obvious hints.

Quentin is currently asleep on Julia’s left shoulder, drooling on her suit jacket. It sends a pang through Alice to see him so comfortable with her, curled up in his seat in dark blue sweats, apparently unconcerned what the staff might think to see him draped all over another woman when _Alice_ is supposed to be the one he loves. Even though he didn’t listen to her at _all_ about dressing appropriately, claiming that Alice is just as dressed-down. She’s in a cranberry sweater that zips up the back, a dark gray skirt and light gray tights. Comfortable, but not anywhere close to Quentin in his glorified pajamas. It’s a plane ride, he’d insisted; he wanted to be comfortable and anyway he’d pack a change of clothes just in case someone takes a photo of him when they land. Which, he’d said, he doubts very much will happen.

(Alice knows better; or rather, she knows _Julia_ better. Her devious side, anyway.)

His ceremonial suit is folded neatly over a seat across the aisle, silver circlet perched on top, because Julia had insisted. It’s a step down from the full regalia he’ll wear at the benefit. 

No matter how many times Quentin had promised that Julia is his friend (and bodyguard, and adviser, and assistant, and – everything else, frankly) Alice can’t seem to shake her suspicion. It’s enough that she almost – _almost –_ reminds Julia that she should not be talking about their crown prince in such a casual manner. If it were anyone else, Alice wouldn’t bother restraining herself. She would demand respect for Quentin as Prince, and for herself, by association. She’s not stupid. She knows Quentin has had – feelings, for Julia, before. In the past, waved off as a silly little boy chasing the one person who was always by his side, who he trusted more than anyone else to ignore his birthright and tell him the truth, but _there_ nonetheless.

Quentin’s just tactile, Julia’s explained, and Alice could accept that, but for the fact that he’s never touched her like that.

She wonders, idly, if it’s because he never had enough strong feelings towards her to do so, or if she never made him feel like he could.

Still, it doesn’t do her any good now to sit here and get herself all worked up over the two of them. She crosses her legs and goes back to her book. Four hours left to go until they land, and, as much as she hates to admit it, it’s going to be overwhelming. For herself, for their Prince, for the entire delegation. She remembers what it was like coming to New York for the first time. Quentin has – he’s never been, she thinks. He was at Oxford when she was at Columbia, and they’d met later on, at the swearing-in of Fillory’s first Prime Minister.

(They’d gotten into an argument, she recalls, about whether the Prime Minister should have been directly elected, and about the powers the new Constitution left with the monarch. Her mother had berated her for challenging the Crown Prince, but the next day, he’d asked her to tea. He’d liked that she challenged him. She liked that he liked it.)

It’ll be more than overwhelming for Quentin, she knows.

She just hopes that, this time, he’ll choose to lean on _her._

* *

The sun is just barely starting to stream through the gauzy red curtains when Eliot is, quite unceremoniously, woken with a bite to his neck. He gasps and arches into it, conscious enough – despite his sleep-lagged brain – to make himself as enticing as possible.

“Good morning,” comes the low rumble of his bedmate’s voice. Eliot rolls over a little to catch Idri’s gaze, his dark eyes fixated on Eliot’s face. 

“Mmm. What time is it?” 

“Early enough.” Idri smirks. “Don’t worry; I’m sure your boss will understand if you’re late for work.”

“I’d hope so,” Eliot says, and, with some effort, rolls over on top of Idri. His morning wood is at half-mast, and it rubs rather wonderfully against Idri’s thigh through his silk robe. “Seeing as he’s the one who’s going to _make_ me late.” He glances at the clock on the bedside table. Six-thirty; earlier than he thought, and, he hopes, enough time for a quickie before he has to meet Margo. She’d texted him the night before, and he’d barely had enough time to make out the message before Idri had plucked the phone from his hand and tossed it on the loveseat in his foyer, but no matter what she wants, he knows better than to show up late.

_Idri_ might be understanding. Margo definitely won’t be.

“Hello there, beautiful,” Idri says, shifting to allow Eliot a little more friction. “Do you want some help, there?”

Eliot grins, sharp, for just a second, before pitching his voice unnaturally high and whining, “oh, yes, _please,_ Daddy.” 

Which, as always, is quite successful in getting Idri to flip them over and dig his teeth and nails into Eliot’s bare chest, if only to shut him up.

Idri is _easy,_ is the thing. Handsome and wealthy, and experienced in the bedroom. And, sure, he’s Eliot’s boss, but that’s not really anything new for him, either. He made it through college with the help of half a dozen… _benefactors,_ and he’d landed an ‘unpaid’ internship the summer before his senior year that involved fetching coffee in the morning and office blowjobs after hours. The only difference between them and Idri is that Idri doesn’t, technically, pay him for the privilege. Oh, there are gifts, to be sure, and Eliot is well-paid, but he’s secure enough in his own abilities to know that he’s being compensated for his work, and not his. Well, _work._

Speaking of.

“I saw the club is closed on New Year’s Eve,” Eliot says. Idri raises his head from biting bruises into Eliot’s skin, just above his left nipple. He gives Eliot a somewhat incredulous look.

“Am I boring you?” he asks. “Because if so –” He moves to roll off of him, and Eliot grabs his wrist.

“No! No, not at all, I just – It occurred to me. It’s a big night for us. Is there – I didn’t see who booked it.”

“If I tell you, will you be a good boy and be quiet?”

Eliot smirks. “I might let you _make me_ ,” he says. 

Idri looks pleased at that; he never could resist Eliot challenging him. It was how Eliot got into his bed in the first place, after all. “It’s been booked for a charity gala. Some foreign royals.”

“ _Some foreign royals?_ ”

“Didn’t quite catch their country. Doesn’t matter anyway – I know I’d never heard of it, which means you definitely haven’t. They’re not exactly. Well. Members of the G-20.”

_Backwater hicks, you mean,_ Eliot thinks, and tries not to flinch at the implication. “And you didn’t want to tell me because –”

“ _Honestly,_ Eliot,” Idri sighs. “They only contacted me yesterday, and I hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to you. I didn’t expect you to check the calendar before I could.” Eliot says nothing, stares at him stone-faced and waits. Four. Three. Two – “Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

Eliot arches up and presses his lips to Idri’si before he can take it back. “Forgiven,” he says. “I suppose you’ll want my team on it?”

“The woman I spoke with seemed to be under the impression we’d be handling the guest list,” Idri says, which is a _yes._ “She didn’t let me say that wasn’t my purview, but luckily, I know a very handsome man with an excellent team who can _more_ than handle it.”

“Oh?” Eliot says, trailing his fingers down Idri’s chest. “How handsome? Should I be jealous?”

“ _Very_ ,” Idri responds, and catches Eliot’s wrist. He draws Eliot’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his palm, followed by a light nip that makes Eliot shiver. _Fuck_. A cold shower is definitely not going to do the trick. Not that he’s disappointed.

He imagines what he’ll say to Margo when he’s late for brunch. _So terribly sorry, my dear. Something, ah, came up, and I couldn’t leave until Idri helped me put it down again._ He hopes the enticement of working for royalty is enough to temper her wrath, but even if it’s not –

“Well then,” Eliot says, smirking up at Idri, “I’ll just have to make you forget about him, won’t I?”

* *

Afterwards, Eliot begs off a second round. He hates to do it; Idri’s stamina and refractory period would be impressive for anyone, but even more so for a man of his age. And it seems like if he didn’t have Margo waiting, he’d be getting fucked over the bathroom counter now, which is. Never disappointing. But she’s going to be pissed enough that he’s made her wait so he can have a single orgasm, never mind two, so. He brushes his teeth and gargles the taste of Idri’s come from his mouth, while Idri sits at the vanity and wipes Eliot’s spill from his thigh. It makes him flush a little, mildly embarrassed by the reminder that he came from grinding on Idri after blowing him, but embarrassed in a way that only feels good.

“You’ll be in later?” Idri asks. “I know I said your boss wouldn’t mind lateness, but –”

“I’ll be in,” Eliot says. “My team and I have _lots_ to discuss, given the surprise _event_ , but I’ll be in once we’re done.”

Idri just nods, and Eliot spits into the sink.

His _team,_ as he put it, is mostly Margo. If these people, this supposed _royal delegation,_ are so hopeless that Idri doesn’t even know what country they’re from, if they’re actually planning on pulling this off they’ll need to score some solid attendance. And no one is better at that than Margo. He just doesn’t know how much convincing she’ll need.

_Start with himself._ Idri’s closet is massive, and he’s purchased an entire wardrobe for Eliot that just lives here. Eliot has his own clothes, of course, at the apartment he shares with Margo, but – he likes to keep the wardrobes separate. The things he wears _as Idri’s,_ and the things that are just _himself._ Margo’s expressed, on at least five occasions, that Idri’s taste (and wallet) far surpass Eliot’s, but Eliot mostly thinks she’s fucking with him.

Truth is, Idri’s taste is a little too… _heterosexual._ Especially from a man who is, Eliot has on good authority, currently fucking another one.

He picks out a navy three-piece suit, leaves the jacket in the closet, and pairs with a light gray shirt and – ah, a floral tie he left here last week, after Idri used it to tie his wrists to the headboard. That had been – memorable, certainly, and left the tie a little rumpled, but he likes the look.

As he ties it in the mirror, he notices Idri behind him, playing with his cock. He wonders if Idri’s remembering that night, too. He winks and makes a show of bending over to tie his shoelaces.

“Bye, honey,” Eliot tosses out once he’s done. “I’ll see you at work.”

“Don’t forget your coat,” Idri responds, his voice a little breathy – a little hitched – his hand still wrapped around his cock.

“Yes, _daddy_ ,” Eliot says, and grins victoriously when Idri moans and strokes a little faster.

His coat is in the foyer, draped over a decorative chair, and he slips it on as he leaves the penthouse. Idri has bought him three other coats, each more expensive than the last, but he likes this one. This one is _his._ It may not be the most stylish, anymore; it’s at least three years out of fashion. But it keeps him warmer than anything else, and he fucking _hates_ being cold.

“Mr. Waugh,” the doorman, Todd, greets him when he gets down to street level. Todd is – well, he’s like a funhouse mirror. He’s also in complete awe of Eliot, and, in the months that Eliot’s been sleeping with Idri, has been trying to emulate more and more of Eliot’s dress and mannerisms. For a while, he contemplated bringing the kid to bed with them – like a lesser twin, a gift for Idri, but it didn’t take very long for Eliot to realize why that was a very, _very_ bad idea.

“Todd,” he says, nodding. Todd’s eyes go wide and he coughs. Yeah. Eliot likes being worshiped, but not – not whatever it is Todd is doing.

“Oh!” he exclaims, evidently thinking Eliot’s silent musings are an – expectation, of something. “Did you. Uh. Want me to get the car?”

Eliot shakes his head. “I ordered an Uber while I was upstairs. I wouldn’t let Idri find out you offered, though, if I were you – he doesn’t like people ordering his drivers around without permission.” He shrugs. “I mean. You don’t want to end up like the last doorman.”

If possible, Todd’s eyes go even wider. He’s definitely called Idri’s car for Eliot before. “Uh. What happened to the last doorman?”

“Look at that, my Uber’s here,” Eliot says, as a blue Ford sedan pulls up to the door. “Bye, Todd. Make good choices.”

He leaves the kid spluttering.

The ride to the restaurant is slow, and boring, and the people-watching is even slower and more boring than that. At least, until he finally spots his Bambi, standing outside in black jeans, black over-the knee boots, and a dark purple leather jacket. Her arms are crossed, her cheeks are red, and she’s pissed.

Eliot bounds out of the car. “Bambi!” he exclaims.

“You’re late.”

“I had a busy morning. Woke up with Idri. Made his doorman think I was going to get him fired or disappeared for offering to call his car for me.”

“Doesn’t he do that all the time?” Margo asks. “I thought your sugar-daddy wanted you to use it. Something about not wanting your ass to touch seats that have been _bespoiled_ by other men’s butts.”

Eliot stares at her. “Obviously. But Todd doesn’t know that.”

“You torment that poor boy,” she says. As if she doesn’t have Todd convinced that she’s a mob boss that Eliot’s cheating on Idri with, and if he ever found out she’d have her associates drown him in the East River.

“Whatever,” Eliot says. “Are we getting quiche or what?”

“Eugh. I _hate_ quiche. I’m getting waffles,” she says. Eliot bends down to kiss her on the forehead.

“The best waffles,” he promises.

“I’m still pissed at you. It’s freezing out here.”

Eliot, wisely, does not tell her she could have waited inside.

* *

“Lady Alice?”

Alice looks up from her book. The copilot stands next to her seat, glancing awkwardly in Quentin’s direction. She’s sure the copilot would be speaking to him, not her, if he wasn’t still asleep; but Quentin’s still out cold, snoring lightly against Julia’s neck. Alice’s hand goes to her own, absently, and rubs there. She doesn’t blame the copilot for not wanting to wake him. That’ll be her job soon enough.

“We’re about to make our final descent into JFK International,” he tells her. “If there’s any final requests you have for the crew before we land, we’ll require everyone be seated in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” Alice says. “Just privacy, I think.”

The copilot bows and heads back to the cockpit, and Alice sighs. Julia smiles at her and starts running her fingers through Quentin’s hair. “Hey,” she says softly. “Time to wake up.”

Quentin groans. “Five minutes?” he grumbles. Julia shakes a little, carefully keeping her laughter silent.

“Sorry, Q. It’s time to get dressed and be Prince-like.”

Alice’s chest clenches. _Fuck._ She needs to get a grip on herself. She shouldn’t be so – _like this_ at someone else handling Quentin. 

He sighs and sits up, grumbling as he stretches his neck and shakes his hair out of his eyes. For a second he just blinks, until the sleep clears from his vision and he grins. “Oh, hey, Vix,” he says, and Alice smiles back. _He is hers._

“Hey yourself,” she says. “We have a few minutes if you want to get changed now.”

“We’re flying into the private terminal and going right to a car,” he says. There’s a slight whine to his voice that’s utterly familiar to Alice. “I don’t see why I have to. And anyway, it’s not like _you’re_ dressed up, either.”

Alice sighs. So it’s like that. “Make you a deal? I’ll change if you will.”

“I’ll just. Step out,” Julia says, gathering her papers into a stack and slipping them into her leather tote. “Check on the rest of the staff.” She drops a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head, and heads out of their cabin towards the back of the plane, where the rest of their little entourage is seated. Quentin’s four attendants, plus her two; Julia’s assistant; newly-appointed U.N. Ambassador Fen, her deputy, and their five-person staff; and the royal chef. The last is along because he’s American, and has friends in New York, and as soon as Quentin realized this he insisted Josh come along and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

(Alice suspects he also just wanted to have someone around who knows his particular food-related quirks, but Prince Quentin is an impossible soft touch. It’s one of the things that makes her so fond of him as her boyfriend, but concerns her as her future King.)

“Did you actually bring your Princess Suit?” Quentin asks.

“ _Countess,_ ” she corrects him, and feels a slight pang at doing so. The idea that he might already be thinking about her as his Princess, enough that he’s apparently forgotten her actual title, warms her. “And yes.”

Quentin sighs. “Fine. We’ll both be hideously uncomfortable walking from the plane to the car, and then from the car to the hotel, and then I’m changing.”

“Deal,” Alice says. She stands up from her seat, offers her hand and Quentin shakes it, grinning. “Get my zipper?”

She turns around and waits for Quentin’s clever fingers to trace up her sides, to curl around the zipper pull. She shivers a little as he slowly drags it down, cool air hitting her bare skin. He rubs his thumb over her left shoulder blade, and then she feels him standing, and kissing her there, and she sighs.

“We don’t have time,” she whispers. “We have to get dressed.”

“How much time do we have?” he asks, kissing her again, trailing his lips up the back of her neck. Alice bites her lip.

“Fifteen – no, more like ten, now – minutes until they start landing procedures,” she says. Quentin hums.

“So, more like thirty until we’re on the ground. And once we’re down we can take as long as we want to get ready.” He nudges her a little, and she turns to face him. He’s standing close, his hands hovering over her shoulders, mouth turned up in a little smirk that’s at odds with the nervous look in his eyes. “It’s my plane, after all.”

Alice steps in close. Quentin’s arms drop to his sides. “Okay,” she says. “But I don’t know if we’ll have time to take care of you.”

“That’s all right,” Quentin says, quickly. “I don’t need – I just want to make you feel good.” He doesn’t move at all; doesn’t try to kiss her, and she lets him wait a minute before rising up on her toes and kissing him.

His hands flail for a second before finally coming to rest on her waist, tugging her sweater a little until she reaches down, as well, and helps untuck it from her skirt. He places a hand on her stomach and she bites at his lips, tangling her fingers in his soft brown hair. She pulls at it a little, delighting in the way he can’t quite bite back a quiet little groan, and pushes him backwards. He falls into his seat and stares at her.

“What?” she asks, tugging her tights down. She leaves her skirt on. Quentin shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, and then, softly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Alice flushes. She’s succeeded in getting her tights down to her ankles. She can’t be bothered with her shoes right now – awkward, strappy little things that will take more coordination than she has to unbuckle. Her sweater is starting to get in the way, though, so she lets that fall to the floor. _Beautiful, ha._ She’s sure she looks ridiculous.

Quentin doesn’t seem to care, though; he’s still watching her with those wide, desperate eyes, and Alice finds herself… emboldened. She kneels up on the seat, straddling Quentin’s lap, and kisses him.

“You wanted to make me feel good,” she says, grabbing his wrist and pressing his hand to the swell of her breast, where it peeks out of her gray cotton bra. He brushes his thumb over her nipple, right on cue, and she shivers. “Get to it. Time’s ticking.”

He moves his hand out of the way and bites her there, right where his palm just was, and for a second she’s too surprised to notice where his hand has gone.

And then –

She’s not.

* *

Alice comes just as they’re landing, and Quentin has to hold onto her for dear life to keep her from falling on the floor as the plane shudders to a stop. He laughs against her throat.

“So that was –”

“Definitely an experience,” Alice finishes. Quentin’s expression is a little – odd, so she adds, quickly, “a good one,” and pets his hair.

“We should probably get dressed. Um.” He blinks up at her, and _gods,_ she’s done a number on his hair. And from the way he was tugging on hers, she’s probably not much better. Julia is going to kill them.

“Yeah,” Alice says, and carefully gets up from Quentin’s lap. The plane has started to taxi slowly back up the runway, and her legs are weak and shaky from exertion. She immediately collapses in her seat and stares at the tights twisted around her shoes.

Quentin has gotten up as well, walking a little awkwardly, and wipes his hand on his sweatpants, leaving white streaks behind. Alice isn’t sure whether she should be embarrassed or not.

She goes with _not._ There’s only so much she can deal with right now; feeling shame over sex doesn’t come close to making the cut.

Her suit is draped neatly over the row behind her. Once she finally gets her shoes and tights off, she starts to change. She doesn’t have extra underwear with her, which is… a minor problem, and after dithering between wearing these or going without, she finally settles on the latter.

On the other side of the cabin, Quentin has gotten his sweats off and is awkwardly getting into his trousers. Black, with a blue stripe down each leg, matching the blue of his military jacket. There’s regalia to go with it, as well, but Quentin refuses to wear it on principle. He’s a scholar, not a soldier, and he won’t pretend to honors he himself has not earned, even if they are honors of the title and not the man.

Her own suit consists of a long black skirt, mid-calf, and a similar jacket to Quentin’s. The only difference is hers is black, and she wears a single medal. A diplomatic honor, given to her by the King, just before she left for university.

Quentin has never asked about it, but it always draws his eyes.

They both have tall, knee-high boots, which they lace up together in silence, until the plane finally comes to a stop and there’s a knock at the cabin door. Without waiting for an answer, Julia barges in.

_Oh,_ Alice realizes, and Quentin seems to have the exact same thought, as his eyes dart over to her anxiously. They’d forgotten to lock the door.

“What happened to your hair?” she asks, and then sighs. “Never mind.” She digs around in her tote for a second, then comes up with a pair of combs, which she passes out to them.

“Thanks, Jules,” Quentin says. Alice just nods.

“What I’m here for. Speaking of. There’s been a slight – mix up, with the runways.”

Alice stares at her. “A mix up? _You_?”

“ _Not_ me,” Julia says. Defending her impeccable organization. “The pilot was supposed to land at the Central Aviation Terminal, a little ways away from here – private, fewer eyes. But we were mistaken for another flight, and –”

She doesn’t need to finish. Quentin’s eyes have gone wide and panicked, and Alice feels her stomach drop to the floor. “ _Julia,”_ she says, drawing out the vowels. “Where are we?”

“The main international terminal,” she says. “It’s okay, the cars we arranged are aware and are heading to meet us at the main entrance, but they – can’t exactly get over here, from there, so. We’ll have to walk through.” She turns to the prince, who is looking paler by the second. “Q. I’m so sorry.”

Quentin swallows hard. “It’s not your fault, Jules. And anyway, I’ll have to get used to the big city at some point. Right?”

“Right,” Julia says.

_Fuck,_ Alice thinks.

* *

Margo orders cinnamon sugar waffles and drowns them in maple syrup, pointedly ignoring the slightly horrified look on Eliot’s face as he daintily cuts into his slice of spinach and shrimp quiche. He’s been oddly antsy since they ordered, which means he wants something from her. Ordinarily, she’d let him suffer until he finally broke, but. She’s feeling magnanimous.

Yesterday was Christmas, after all.

(Never mind that neither of them actually celebrated it; they'd gone the traditional non-Christian New Yorker route of an early dinner at a Chinese restaurant near their apartment followed by a movie at the weird independent theater that only showed foreign films. It had been in Russian, and the subtitles had been almost incomprehensible, but the two tracksuited twinks kissed at the end, so Eliot pronounced it time well spent. She hadn’t disagreed.)

“Okay. Spit it out,” she says.

“What?”

Margo rolls her eyes. _Honestly._ “You need my help with something.”

Eliot chases a rogue shrimp around his plate. “Idri may have. Suggested. I bring you into a project.”

Which means Eliot volunteered her. “So?”

“The club’s been booked on New Years Eve for a charity gala,” he says. Margo raises an eyebrow – _so what?_ she asks with her face. One of the biggest nights of the year; of course the club’s been booked. “Except there’s no guest list.”

“Seriously?” _That’s_ unusual. “So you want me to convince my clients and their friends to go? They probably already have plans, you know.”

Eliot shrugs. “There’s. An incentive,” he says. “The gala’s going to be hosted by a _royal delegation_.”

That _does_ catch her attention. She leans back in her chair and lets a smile break across her face. “You don’t say? Where from?”

“Ah.” Eliot frowns. “Um.”

She rolls her eyes. “You didn't even ask the name of their country?”

“No, I did,” Eliot protests. “It’s just that it's apparently a really tiny country – they only just got U.N. membership, and it sounds like it was hard-fought.” He looks worried. “Bambi, they’re not – they don’t know – anyone, really. And Idri kind of accidentally promised he’d get a spectacular guest list.”

Margo sighs. That particular word isn't Idri's. “You mean he promised you’d get me to put together a spectacular guest list.” On the one hand, _royalty._ She’s always wanted a chance to try on a real tiara. On the other, convincing her clients – who _trust_ her – to show up for a charity party for a country nobody but the biggest geography nerd would have ever heard of is going to be a challenge, and if it backfires, she’s _fucked._

But. She’s raised Eliot into _respectability_ , after all. She has a soft touch for _bumpkins_.

And she’s never been scared of a challenge in her life. “Fine,” she says. “When do they get in?”

“This morning, I believe? They’re supposed to send a messenger by with a packet this afternoon. They’re not great with technology, I don’t think.”

“Hmm.” She takes out her phone and types in a few key phrases. Hoping something’s posted somewhere that will give her _some_ clue to who these people are and what she can expect from them. She’s not expecting much; maybe a tweet, possibly an article on a foreign news site. 

She’s _not_ expecting the CNN headline. 

Her horror must show on her face. “What is it?” Eliot asks.

Wordless, she turns her phone around so he can see the article. _Foreign Royals Cause Chaos at JFK During Post-Christmas Rush._

He grabs the phone from her, and for a minute, just scrolls. Silent.

“Well, it’s not so bad,” he says. “It’s kind of adorable, actually. Sounds like their prince had a panic attack and an ambulance had to be brought in.” He scrolls a little further and laughs. “They were supposed to land at the Central Aviation Terminal, you know, where _your friends_ keep their planes, but I guess someone miscommunicated and they wound up landing at Terminal Four.”

Margo winces. Neither of them have ever attempted to fly during the holidays, but they've seen the chaos on the news. “Welcome to New York,” she says. “I didn’t see a picture of him –”

Eliot starts swiping left. “Some of the EMTs, some of his – delegation, I think? There’s – _oh_ ,” he laughs, and hands the phone back to her. She glances at the screen.

A pretty blonde with _amazing_ assets, wearing an outfit that is doing absolutely nothing for them, is standing next to a stretcher. One hand is clasped with the man on the stretcher – the prince, she assumes, though his face is blocked – and the other is gesticulating at the cameraman. She looks _furious_ . It’s. She _needs_ to meet her.

“Oh,” Margo gasps. Eliot just smirks at her.

“Excellent.”

_Damn._ Oh, well, she’d already said she’s in. And – she is, still, of course. She’ll have to play up the royal delegations as curiosities, but her clients already know Eliot’s reputation. “Cottage party?”

“Of course,” Eliot promises. It will certainly make things easier. Even if the gala itself is a trainwreck, if she can advertise an after party, those are always the _real_ draw. Mingle for a few hours, knock a few names off your Celebrity Selfie Bingo card, toast the weird backwater royals, and get a ticket to the upstairs lounge. Known colloquially as _the Cottage,_ it’s Eliot’s private domain. Fuck knows how Eliot’s kept it so mysterious and exclusive for as long as he has, but it’s a formidable weapon when Idri needs to secure a particularly difficult RSVP.

Margo shoves half a waffle in her mouth and looks back down at her phone, chewing slowly as she contemplates the photo. The caption identifies the blonde as _Countess Alice Quinn_ , and the man lying prone on the stretcher as _Crown Prince Quentin, of Fillory,_ and –

Something about the name of their country stops her cold. It's familiar, and there are – specific images, in her mind. A castle. A mountain. A lake. Not unlike recalling a television show from preschool, only to discover no one but you remembers it, and it might as well have been a dream.

A mystery for another time, perhaps.

She wishes there were a shot of the prince's face. If she could show her clients a photo of him – assuming he’s appropriately hot – that would be a bonus. Not strictly necessary, but could muster some enthusiasm for the actual gala. Get them to open their wallets a little wider for – whatever they’re raising money for.

Speaking of.

She swallows. “So what’s the charity?”

Eliot daintily cuts a shrimp in half – overcompensating for her manners. “What?”

“The thing they’re holding the gala for. What is it?”

He frowns. “Oh. Uh. A hospital, I think?”

“Children’s?”

“Not… specifically? I don’t think?” Eliot shrugs. “But sure, I bet kids get treated there.”

_Wonderful_. “Perfect,” Margo says. “I have a shopping trip lined up this afternoon and another before dinner, and a cocktail hour at that new little boutique by that Mediterranean place we had dinner at last week. Anything you find out about them – and this hospital – oh, and if you can get a photo of the Prince – text me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eliot says, grinning slyly. “Anything else?”

“Tell Idri he’ll have a complete guest list with iron-clad RSVPs within...” she counts on her fingers. “Four days.”

“That's cutting it close,” he says.

“This entire _endeavor_ is cutting close. Seriously. If they'd arrived before Christmas, it might be different. But they didn't.” She waves her hand. “I'm good, Eliot. I make fucking _miracles._ But temper your expectations a little, would you?”

He shrugs and goes back to his quiche. “Four days, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, they get to the hotel without further incident.

Julia does all the talking at the airport, with the medical staff, while Alice strokes Quentin’s hair and talks him through his breathing exercises. It’s not the first time she’s had to help him down from an anxiety attack, but usually they have more – privacy – and the American doctors keep _looking_ at him. And – earlier, he thinks. He’d seen a _camera._ Internet access in his country is spotty, at best, and news doesn’t spread as quickly. That won’t be the case here. It’ll –

_It’ll already be up._

And while they’re trying to put together the benefit, it’ll be the first thing that comes up when, inevitably, their guests run what he assumes would be a basic Internet search for their names or their country or even just _Royal Gala, comma, New York (comma, disaster)_.

The thought threatens to send him into another spiral, so he focuses on Alice’s hand in his hair, her voice guiding his breaths. Tells himself he’ll be okay.

Julia gets the cars pulled around to an employee entrance, and their little entourage slips down an empty corridor. The American doctors follow carefully behind Quentin – gripping Alice’s arm and hand for dear life and focusing on the sway of Julia’s hair in front of him – as though they’re afraid he’ll collapse again. Frankly, he’s not confident he won’t, but he manages.

He doesn’t see a thing of the skyline as they head into Manhattan. Julia and Alice snap pictures on their phones, promise they’ll show him later, but he’s sprawled out on the forward-facing bench with his head in Alice’s lap, watching Julia on the rear-facing one, and doesn’t think he can sit up. Doesn’t really want to. It’s –

It’s overwhelming.

To put it lightly.

He closes his eyes and pretends he can’t hear them whispering above his head. Tries to disappear into another world, a world where he’s not responsible for the future of an entire nation, where he’s just – Where no one knows him. Where he can vanish.

Julia’s talking about damage control. He turns his face into Alice’s knee, lets his hair fall across his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about how much he’s failed them, failed _everyone_ , but the thoughts are looping now.

_Failure._

_Disaster._

_Responsible._

Over and over, growing louder and more distorted with each loop. The words echo in the car and he wants to scream at Alice and Julia, _can’t you hear?_

But it’s in his mind, and he’s paralyzed anyway, and he can do nothing but lie quietly and stare at Alice’s shoes while the car jerks through the crowded streets.

At last, just as he’s starting to truly doze off, the car stops and Alice shakes his shoulder. 

“We’re here,” she says. Julia steps out of the car first, and Alice gives him a few minutes to fix his clothes and his hair before they slide out after her. Quentin clings to her arm, just as tightly as he had in the airport, but – it’s not crowded. Maybe it’s because the hotel security is keeping people away from the entrance, but it’s – okay. He drops Alice’s arm and shoves his hands in his pockets. Gives her a twisted grimace of a smile, which she doesn’t return.

“They’ve called an elevator,” Julia says. “We’ve got the south hallway of the forty-second floor to ourselves. Why don’t you two go up and get settled, and I’ll get the rest of the party sorted.”

He’s not sure what he looks like, but he thinks his smile to her might be more genuine. “Thanks, Jules,” he says, relieved.

Julia returns it, and hands a black leather binder to Alice. “The benefit plans, Countess,” she says. “They’ll need to be delivered to our venue this afternoon, but of course, you should have the chance to review them.”

Alice nods and glances over her shoulder at Quentin, just for a second, before returning her attention to Julia. “I’m sure they’re perfect,” she says. He can hear the _diplomat_ in her voice. It’s a tone he’s never been able to replicate, no matter how much he’s studied her. “I don’t doubt your attention to _detail,_ but we’ll take a look and let you know if we have any suggestions.”

“I’ll arrange a courier once you’re finished,” Julia says, offering a slight bow, and steps aside. Alice sweeps into the hotel, her long skirt swaying against her ankles, and Quentin follows silently in her wake.

A bellboy in a dark red suit meets them in the elevator. He’s young, barely out of his teens if Quentin were going to guess, with a slight flush to his cheeks. Quentin doubts it’s because he has royalty in his elevator – he’s surely had much more impressive guests than them come through.

Still, it’s awkward, and Quentin wants to break it with an introduction: _hi, I’m Quentin – Prince Quentin – Q – ah, hell,_ but, in the end, he just rides the elevator silently. At his side, Alice taps her nails on the folder. The rhythm is soothing, until it isn’t, but luckily just as it’s starting to grate they arrive on their floor.

They’re shown to an expansive suite at the end of the hallway. The sitting room features tall windows overlooking the park, and Quentin barely notices the other features (red upholstery, a glint of gold) as he’s drawn to stare out over the trees below. They’re bare and lifeless and nothing at all like the trees back home, and the skyscrapers towering over them are nothing like the mountains he can see from the palace windows, but –

It’s something to hold onto, at least. 

“Quentin?” 

He tears his eyes from the window and turns to face Alice. Her brow is furrowed, and she stands with her shoulders squared and her back straight, and Quentin –

Can’t.

“I’m going to rest,” he says. Alice nods tightly.

The bedroom is – warm, he thinks, but that’s all he registers of the decor before he tosses his jacket on the floor, and then all he cares about is sliding between the sheets and closing his eyes.

* *

“You’re late.”

Eliot rolls his eyes as he hangs his coat up in the employee closet. “Impossible,” he says, which just makes Penny’s glower darken. “And anyway, Idri was having me work on a special project for New Year’s.”

“And I suppose he’ll want _security_ for this project?”

“You’ll have all the resources you could ever want,” Eliot promises. Penny still looks annoyed, but he’s not too worried about that. Broody and pissy is kind of his default state. “Is Kady in yet?”

Penny jerks his head in the direction of the bar, just as a loud crash followed by glass shattering echoes in the other room.

 _Great_ , Eliot thinks, as he heads in the direction of a loud stream of swearing. _We’re fucking cursed._

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asks the empty room. Kady stands up from behind the bar, pushing her thick, curly hair out of her face.

“I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.”

Eliot shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to be without my best bartender,” he says, and Kady gives him a kind of incredulous look in return. “I mean, besides myself, of course.”

“Of course.”

As far as actual _bartending,_ there is no one better than Eliot in Manhattan, and he’d be willing to match his skills against all of the Northeast. His artistry, creativity, and presentation are unmatched. But as he’s taken on event planning responsibilities, he’s rarely behind the bar anymore for regular parties and his talents are now almost exclusively limited to the Cottage.

Kady, on the other hand, is perfectly competent, and she’s willing enough to put on a show (though always with an edge of resentment, which nevertheless enhances her performance) but her true value lies in her enthusiastic ability completely fuck up anyone who steps out of line, even before Penny can get there to throw the offender out on the street.

She is, above all else, the fucking guardian angel of the club.

“Anyway, I was just telling Penny we’ve booked a royal fundraiser for New Years Eve.”

“Did you.”

“Short notice, I know, but they seem very sweet and deeply pathetic and you know how Idri feels about charity cases.”

Kady gives him a slow once-over and responds, deliberately, “I do.”

Well, he walked right into that one, he supposes. “They’re sending a courier by with the details and Margo’s handling the guest list. I don’t suppose...”

“Eliot, every caterer we’ve ever used is booked _months_ , sometimes _years_ in advance for the holidays,” she says. “I might be able to find a couple food carts who’ll do it, but –”

Eliot waves his hand. “Their royal chef will be handling the menu. He’ll just need a handful of sous-chefs and maybe half a dozen waiters.” They have a regular staff of waiters and waitresses, mostly to serve drinks; they haven’t had a regular chef for months, since the last one left to start her own restaurant and her replacement nearly burnt down the kitchen, but they’ve been able to make do with simple hors d'oeuvres on regular nights and booking guest chefs for larger events. It’s worked well enough, made their events even more of a draw when they can advertise a special menu, but. It’s times like this that Eliot wishes Idri would just hire a new head chef.

She taps her fingers on the bar, and then sighs. “Yeah, I might know some people. I’m assuming you’ll want to vet them?”

“Have Penny run a background check, and they’ll need to meet with Idri and representatives of the delegation beforehand.”

Something occurs to him, then, and he brightens. “Oh! The show tomorrow, for Ess’s new line. I’ll see if any of them are interested in attending. They can see what we can do, and we can get the introductions out of the way.”

Kady sighs. “You know this is insane, right?” she asks. “I mean. A royal delegation from a tiny, no-name little country shows up in New York City _two weeks_ before they want to host a fundraiser on one of the biggest nights of the year, and you think you can pull it off?”

Well. That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? “Yes,” Eliot says. “Because I _can_.”

He’s never backed down from a challenge in his _life,_ and he’ll be fucked if he’s going to start now.

* *

Quentin isn’t sleeping.

He can hear them talking. Only every third word, and muffled to the point of near-incomprehensibility, but the tone of their voices is familiar. He wishes it weren’t; wishes he weren’t so completely accustomed to hearing them argue about him. Wishes he didn’t give them such a reason to. 

He knows he isn’t exactly easy to manage. Knows, too, that the very fact that he has to be _managed_ is. Well. 

He’s supposed to be in charge.

Someone shouts something – he can’t quite tell who – and he hears the door slam. He groans and rolls his face into his pillow. He can’t help but feel like their strife is his fault. They’ve never been friends, really, in all the years he’s known them, as much as he wishes they could be. Thinks they could be, too, if things were –

Well, if it weren’t for _him._

Groaning softly, Quentin rolls out of bed and runs his fingers through his hair, hoping it isn’t too much of a mess, and wanders out of the room. Alice is sitting on the dark red loveseat, elbows on her knees and head in her hands, and she doesn’t look up when he walks in.

“Um.”

“What is it?” she asks, muffled and resigned. He approaches carefully and sits beside her, folding his hands in his lap, very deliberately not touching her.

“I heard. Well.” He waves at the door to the hallway. “I’m sorry about that.”

She does look up then. She’s rubbed off her makeup, and he can see the dark shadows under her eyes. “It’s not your fault,” she says. “I mean. It _wasn’t_ your fault.”

“I know that,” he says. Quentin blames himself for so many things, feels terribly guilty about the anxiety that leads to his panic attacks, but for all the things that _are_ his fault, the plane landing at the wrong terminal is _not_. He knows this. 

(Even though it _is_ his plane, and therefore, he should have some responsibility for its operation –)

“No, I. What I mean is.” She fumbles for words. “She staged it. Julia. She wanted a photo-op of the young international couple. She called an American reporter, and they have a photographer. That’s how – that’s how it got online so fast.”

There’s a roaring in Quentin’s brain. “What?”

“She thought you’d be okay. Thought it’d be better if she didn’t tell you before we landed. Obviously, she miscalculated.”

_Obviously._

“She’s not sorry, either,” Alice says. “I thought – you know, if she _was_ sorry, it’d be. Not fine, but. But she’s _not._ All publicity is fine, it seems, in her mind. Doesn’t matter if you get hurt.”

He thinks, as the roaring starts to slowly quiet, that he should be angry. He should be _furious._ He should – he should call her back, fire her, send her back home. There’s no direct flights, but there are plenty of planes to Europe leaving every hour, and –

But he can’t. As much as he wishes he could, she’s been a part of his life for too long, and at this point he needs her, to a degree that’s more than a little terrifying. And not just to plan the benefit.

The black leather folder with the plans is sitting on the coffee table, stark against the gold and glass. “Are those ready to send to the venue?”

Alice looks confused for a moment, then nods. “I was going to call one of our staff in and have them bring it down.”

“I can do it.”

She laughs at him. He hates the sound of it. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Probably not. But he could use the air. He can’t breathe in here. The weight of what Julia did is resting heavy on Alice’s shoulders, and it threatens to suffocate him. “I’ll take a car. It’ll be fine. And anyway, this is supposed to be my event. I’d like to see the place.”

She taps her fingers on her knee. Quentin’s the fucking prince; he doesn’t need her permission; he doesn’t need _anyone’s_ permission to do anything, technically. But he learned a long time ago that challenging her on ideas isn’t the same as challenging her on practical matters.

“All right,” she says. “I’m pretty sure this hotel has a bar, so I’m going to go find it. Our suitcases are in the guest room, if you want to change. We can have them moved later, but I didn’t want to wake you.” She stands, and looks at him funny, like she’s trying to decide if there’s something else she wants to say. Or do. 

But she just nods and turns on her heel, and then she’s gone.

He sighs and starts poking through doors. He finds a second indoor sitting area, which leads out to a sun room, and a dining room, and a kitchen (odd, he thinks, but supposes it must be for people who travel with a private chef, until he realizes that he _is_ people, and his private chef is just down the hall) and finally stumbles on the second bedroom.

There’s no use for it, really, except to reassure their more conservative citizens that he and Alice are _certainly_ not having any improper relations before they’re properly engaged.

(Which is another matter that he’s definitely _not_ thinking about right now.)

Quentin rummages through the pile of suitcases until he finds his blue duffel. This one has the clothes _he_ prefers, and he damn near had to sneak it on the plane himself behind the backs of both Julia and Alice. The latter of which nearly had an aneurysm when he changed into sweats for the flight. Not that she minds as much when they’re at home, but – as she and Julia and goddamn _Rafe_ have explained, many many times, there’s a certain degree of _image_ he needs to project.

He strips out of his uniform and changes into his soft, worn jeans, and a navy sweater, and ties his hair back in a bun. He doesn’t bother with a coat – prefers not to, if he can stand it, and as he’s usually only outdoors for a moment between warm cars and warm buildings, he’s typically fine. Besides, the only coat he has is uniform, worn for the few outdoor ceremonial appearances he’s required to make, and he despises it.

If it were up to him, he’d never wear the uniform. He’s already caused a minor scandal back home, when it came out that Crown Prince Quentin was refusing to wear the regalia that came with his title; it’s blown over by now, but he’s been informed by many, many people that refusing to wear the uniform _at all_ would just start the whole shitstorm over again.

As though he has to wear a jacket and some fake medals to prove his commitment to his people.

He finds his messenger bag in the pile, as well. Alice hates it, too, but knows its sentimental value and mostly just keeps her disapproval to a pursed side-glance.

Quentin rubs his fingers over the soft leather. He’d lived in the dorms his first year at Oxford, though in a private room, and the guy across the hall had noticed the first week how he was struggling to carry his books to class. He’d gotten him the bag, and asked him to lunch, and –

Well, and _then._ It had taken another month for Quentin to tell Alex that he was a foreign prince, and while his father didn’t particularly care that he liked boys, there were certain expectations. Alex had understood; his father was a prominent conservative MP and deeply homophobic.

It’d lasted an entire semester, until Alex’s father showed up unannounced just before the winter break. Alex had transferred to Cambridge shortly after. The last Quentin heard, he was working in the City, married to the daughter of a barrister with a baby on the way.

It never would’ve worked, anyway. Even if Quentin wasn’t who he was, and even if Alex had been free to date who he wanted, Quentin’s not sure Alex would have been any more open about their – well. _Relationship_ is the wrong word. Their first lunch date had also been their last, and Alex never really wanted to see Quentin outside their flats. For his part, Quentin hadn’t minded it, and he kind of doubts it would’ve been much different if they were two anonymous people removed from duty and paternal disapproval.

Still. They’d never been in love, but Alex had been a friend, when Quentin was alone in a strange country, and he’d had never really had one of those before. Aside from Julia, who was an entire ocean and half a dozen time zones away. 

He slips the leather folder into his bag and heads down to the lobby, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pocket so that he doesn’t fidget. Another reason he prefers to avoid his uniform – there are no pockets in the slim trousers or the jacket, and although he can worry the cuffs with his hands tucked behind his back without anyone seeing, if he has the choice, he prefers to hide them from the world altogether.

A bellboy points him in the direction of the correct exit, and he passes by the bar on the way out. He glances inside, hoping to get a glimpse of Alice, but the lighting is too dim to make out faces or the glint of her platinum-blonde hair. He continues on.

As he waits for the private car service to pull around, he watches yellow taxis pass by, and wishes he had thought to ask Julia about currency exchange. They don’t carry cash normally, but there are no royal accounts here to charge with his face as his only ID. There’s likely an assumption that he won’t ever need to purchase anything, but. He’d like the option. If only because being in a strange city with no actual money is starting to press a little on his anxiety.

For now, though, he gets in the sleek black town car.

“Your Highness,” the driver says. He has a broad, thick accent, similar to the voices of the paramedics and the bellboy, and it makes everything he says sound sarcastic. He doesn’t argue it; there’s no reason for him to expect any special respect here.

“Could you take me to – uh.” He pulls the folder out of his bag and flips through it, hoping to find the venue name. “Sorry, um. Loria, by Idri?”

“Got an address?”

He finds that as well, and the driver snorts out an odd laugh (Quentin isn’t sure what’s funny, figures it’s a local joke he’s not in on) and they’re off.

Driving – being _driven_ – through the city, when he’s actually looking through the windows, is an experience. There are people – _lots_ of people, so many more than he’s used to, even on festival days – and enormous buildings stretching towards the clouds. 

He’s trying not to be too obvious with the gawking, but he’s sure he’s failing, and hopes the driver is well-acquainted with his less than graceful reaction to the city.

Someone honks, then, and the driver slams on the brakes. Quentin just barely manages to catch himself against the passenger seat, but in the process he drops the folder.

“Sorry, Highness,” the driver says.

“No – it’s no trouble,” Quentin says, a little breathlessly. He gathers up the folder and the few scattered pages that fell out.

The rest of the drive is only a few minutes, but it feels like ages; his anxiety ticks up with every second, and he flinches at every honk, ready for the car to jerk to a stop again. It doesn’t; the rest of the ride is smooth as anything, and not nearly soon enough, they’re pulling up in front of a five-story, red brick building. There’s a half flight of stairs leading to the door, which has _Loria by Idri_ embossed in gold and black. 

“This is the place,” the driver says. “Shall I keep the car running?”

“Please,” Quentin says. “I won’t be long. Just – dropping this off.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, or for the driver to get out and open the door. He lets himself out onto the curb, and braces his shoulders against the frigid wind.

The place is closed, but the door is unlocked, which strikes Quentin as strange. Still, better to get inside quickly than be stuck in the cold, banging on the door like –

“Can I help you?”

“Um.” Quentin tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear. The first thing he notices is how _tall_ the man is. He stalks toward Quentin with a particular grace, slim trousers stretched over his long legs, and stops far too close. Quentin’s hands jerk, but he manages to keep hold of the folder. “I uh.”

The man quirks an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

Quentin shakes his head in an attempt to banish his nerves. Blinks away the image of the man’s hazel eyes boring into him. “I brought the notes. For the New Year’s gala. I was, um. Going to deliver them to Idri.”

The man purses his lips and plucks the folder from Quentin’s hands before he can stop him.

“Wait – that should. Um. I should give it directly to Idri. I think he might want to see me.”

The man laughs. Well. Not so much _laughs_ as _forces a sarcastic giggle._ It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

“Q,” he says, before he can stop himself. The man’s smirk widens.

“I’m Eliot.” He shfts his weight, so that his hip is slightly cocked, and drags his gaze down Quentin’s body. Quentin resists the urge to cross his arms over himself. “Idri trusts me to handle his business.”

“Still, I think –”

“You're _cute,_ ” Eliot repeats. Harsher. “You're not his type. I'll get your folder to Idri, little courier, and you can tell your prince the job's been done.”

Quentin gapes at him. He –

He implied –

But before he can muster up the words to rebuke him, before he can shove away the awkward, _useless_ man and step back into the persona he _hates,_ Eliot has turned on his heel and left.

“Well,” Quentin says to the empty room. _That happened._

As he turns back to return to his car, he thinks about telling Alice or Julia what happened here. They'd be horrified on his behalf, certainly; maybe enough to relocate the gala, or at least threaten to do so, but he imagines they've already shown enough of their cards that Idri would just call their bluff. _Maybe_ they'd get Eliot removed from the account, but he also has a sneaking suspicion that when Julia said that Idri had _his people_ on it, he meant Eliot.

Anyway, he's not really thrilled with the prospect of having Julia and Alice fight his battles, _again._ And ultimately, it feels petty.

He tugs the tie out of his hair and lets it fall over his face as he curls up in a ball in the backseat of the car, rests his head against the cold window, and closes his eyes.

The worst of it, he realizes, as he watches the buildings pass by in flashes of metal and glass and tries to ignore his humiliation, is that this won't be the last time he'll have to see Eliot.

He doesn't know if it would be better or worse if the next time they meet, he'll be with Alice or Julia or both, or someone else in their delegation, or –

“You okay back there, Highness?” the driver asks. Quentin sighs against the glass, watches his warm breath fog for just a second and then fade.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just fine, thank you.”

The rest of the drive is silent, save for the near-constant blaring of horns. He's not thrown from his seat again, which is good, because he's not sure he could muster the strength to catch himself if he were. He's exhausted from the flight and the airport and – it's hard to believe it's barely mid-afternoon. He's reminded, then, that the last time he ate was on the plane, hours ago now, before he fell asleep on Julia's shoulder.

He considers asking the driver to pick something up, but he doesn't – as odd as it sounds, he doesn't want to impose. They'll be back soon, anyway, and he can ask the hotel to bring him something. Or call in Josh, their American chef, for a recommendation.

Really, he isn't particularly hungry, but Julia says he still gets cranky when he hasn't eaten, and Alice is always aware of it as well and gets this awful, sad look on her face that, really, always kind of horrifies him. So, for their sake, if nothing else.

He's dropped off at the side door, and Quentin stumbles through an awkward thanks, and heads quickly over to the elevator and up to their floor.

Determined, now, to make Alice think he's fine, and definitely taking care of himself, he turns the opposite way down the hall from his suite, before realizing he has _no_ idea where Josh's room is.

He knocks on the first door, anyway, and waits for an answer.

Ambassador Fen pokes her head out. Her light brown hair is swept back in a ponytail, and she grins when she sees him. “Prince Quentin!”

“Um. Hi,” he says. Her eyes look a little shiny, and a little red. “Do you know where Josh –”

She opens the door a little wider and reveals Josh, draped sideways on a couch, his head dangling upside-down over the armrest.

“Josh?” Quentin tries. He jerks and flails and lands, hard, on the floor. Quentin winces sympathetically, but Josh is on his feet in an instant. He hurries over to the door, though he's a little wobbly and definitely not going in a straight line.

“Your Highness!” Josh exclaims. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Quentin tilts his head. Josh's eyes have the same glassiness as Fen's, the same redness, and he sighs. “Did you take something?”

“I mean, it's been such a long time since I've been home. I _missed_ American drugs. Don't get me wrong, your Fillorian mushrooms are spectacular, but it's just not the _same_ as weed from the good old U.S. of A., man. Uh. Prince.”

Well. He can't say he approves, but honestly...

“I was just. Uh. I kind of remembered I haven't eaten yet, and –”

“You want me to make you something?” Josh asks, and then lights up, thrilled. “Oh! I could –”

“No – no, that's okay,” Quentin stops him. “I was just wondering, since you're American, if you could recommend something? Um. Not too adventurous. I –” He sighs, defeated. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Hey,” Josh says. “I got you.” He fumbles around in his pocket and produces a smartphone, which he waves theatrically. “I'm the _best_ at Postmates.”

Quentin has no idea what that means, but he nods like he does anyway. “Thanks,” he says.

“My Prince,” Josh says, and bows with way too many flourishes, nearly falling over in the process. Fen falls against the wall, laughing. “I'll get it sent to your room, if you want.”

“Please,” Quentin says. “And – feel free to get whatever you'd like for yourself and Fen, as well. I'll have Julia reimburse for all of it.”

He feels, a little bit, like he might regret that promise, as Josh's face splits into a delighted, evil smile. “Thank you, your Highness,” Josh says, bowing again and setting Fen off into another laughing fit. Despite himself, Quentin smiles, and keeps smiling to himself – small and quiet, mostly covered by his hair – as he makes his way back down the hall to his suite.

Part of him wonders what it might be like to stay with them, to eat together and maybe sample whatever it was that Josh procured for himself and the Ambassador, but he can't. He knows he can't. And even if he could – he's not the greatest company, even when he's at his best, and he certainly isn't that right now.

Alice isn't in the room when he gets back, which is something of a relief, though he feels a bit guilty about it. He kicks his shoes off into a corner, steals the duvet from the guest room, and flops down on the couch. He'll hear the door from here, he decides, whenever his food arrives. Just – he wants to lie down. Maybe close his eyes and pretend he's home, where his mask fits and tall men with hazel eyes don't imply he's –

* *

Something smells good.

Quentin opens his eyes to a small collection of cardboard containers stacked on the coffee table, and a hand carding through his hair. He yawns and sits up.

“Hi,” Alice says uncertainly. Quentin tips his head back and sees her, perched awkwardly on the arm of the sofa. “Josh brought some food by. Said you asked him to order it?”

“I, uh.” Quentin blinks the sleep from his eyes. “I was. Taking care of myself?”

She smiles. “I'm glad. What did you order?”

“No idea,” Quentin says. He shoves the duvet down to the opposite end of the couch and sits up. He laces his fingers through Alice's – which, somewhat shockingly, she allows – and tugs her to sit next to him. She does, carefully, smoothing out her skirt as she does. He notices, then, that she's changed out of her suit; she's in black tights, a knee-length powder blue skirt, and a black lace top. Her blue eyes are wide behind her glasses. “Looks like a lot, though. Do you, uh.” He fumbles. “Join me?”

Her smile widens. “Yes,” she says. “There should be plates in the kitchen –”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and lets go of her hand.

While he waits for her to return, he starts poking through the boxes. He'd been – a little concerned, to be honest, about what he might expect to find when he asked Josh to order for him. Josh has been to so many more places than Quentin has; was probably tempted to force him to expand his palate. He's relieved to see what looks like a simple duck, with a medley of vegetables (most of which he recognizes; some of which he doesn't). There's another box of fish, which isn't so plentiful in his mountainous homeland, though they do have a couple rivers and a small lake. The fillet is white and flaky, and rests on a bed of rice. A box of pasta, with a red sauce, and a box of enormous, breaded mushrooms, and one that just contains bread rolls (three white and three wheat) and –

The final box contains four small, round cakes.

He's tempted to try these first, but he knows from experience that so much sugar on an empty stomach doesn't agree with him, so he closes this box and sets it aside as Alice returns with plates and silverware and white, linen napkins lined with gold thread.

“Josh went a little overboard, didn't he?” Alice comments, taking in the spread. Quentin hums in agreement.

They eat in silence, trying a little of everything. Quentin prefers the duck to the fish, and discovers the mushrooms are stuffed with a cheese that he doesn't recognize but that has a pleasing texture, and smothers one of the white rolls with butter and uses it to soak up the extra sauce from the pasta, which seems to make Alice happy.

He gathers the empty boxes when they're done, and stacks them on top of their dirty plates and silverware. “There's dessert, too,” he says, pointing to the last box. “I'll get clean plates?”

“Thank you,” Alice says, like she's not just thanking him for getting plates, and it makes Quentin feel –

He's not sure.

The cakes are chocolate raspberry, strawberry, vanilla bean, and red velvet, and they split each of them. He likes the red velvet best. Alice likes the chocolate raspberry. He tries to make a note of that, for future reference, though he has some doubts in his own ability to properly remember.

“So how was the venue?” Alice asks, as they finish. For a couple seconds, Quentin can't for the life of him figure out what she's referring to, and then he panics because he doesn't actually _remember._ He'd been so distracted by Eliot arriving, like _that,_ and insulting him, that he'd completely forgotten to actually _see_ the venue.

“Um. It was – yeah, it was good. Very – appropriate,” he hedges. Alice raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I'll get a chance to see it soon,” she says. “Our entire delegation has been invited to attend a fashion show at Loria tomorrow.”

Quentin blinks. “What?”

Alice shrugs. “A highly influential socialite with a wide, impressive social circle also happens to be an aspiring fashion designer. Using daddy's money to achieve his dreams.”

That's – not Alice's words. Hypocritical, for one, considering she's a _literal_ countess, part of a hereditary aristocracy, and for another, it's too flippant for the way she's typically judgmental. “I don't –”

Alice sighs. “It's Julia's way of apologizing, I think. From what I understand, Idri put a woman who knows literally _everyone_ in charge of the guest list, and attending this event – letting people see us in a favorable context – is supposed to help with that.”

It makes sense, Quentin supposes, though he wishes Julia would apologize by, well, _talking_ to him. In any case, it seems like this is going to be necessary, in order to pull off the gala. Which he still _wants_ to pull off. _Has_ to. He can't –

He can't imagine failing in this. Won't think of it. The gala _has_ to happen, and it _has_ to be a success, and if that means going to a fashion show and making awkward conversation while desperately hoping he doesn't see Eliot again (and he _doesn't_ want to see him; he's sure of that at least) then so be it. He'll do whatever it takes.

Gladly.

Even if the very idea of it is close to horrifying.

“Okay,” Quentin says, and the word turns into a yawn.

“You can rest, if you want,” Alice says. “Julia's gone to Loria to work out security for the show, and I'm just going to get some reading done.”

It's pathetic, he thinks, but he's exhausted, for more than one reason, and the food has made him drowsy, so he takes her up on her offer. Leaves the duvet where it is and heads into the master bedroom to find Alice has left his sweatpants and a t-shirt folded on the end of the bed.

A muted feeling of warmth flows through him, and he shuts the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Julia takes a cab to Loria.

She'd exchanged some money, and bought a few prepaid credit cards, and left them with Josh, who was holed up in Fen's hotel room with a truly impressive array of takeout boxes and what appeared to be a stash of weed just kind of sitting out on the end table. She'd decided not to ask and just instructed the both of them to make sure Alice and Quentin got theirs.

For the time being, she'd leave them alone. By now, she's sure Alice has told Quentin that the airport debacle wasn't an accident, and while she knows – hopes, anyway – Quentin will forgive her, she also knows he needs his space.

So, as she knocks on the door of the club and waits, folding her hands in front of her, she'll give him that.

A tall man with black hair and a warm brown complexion opens the door. He's wearing a gray suit with a dark red shirt, open at the collar. No necktie. He gives her an odd look.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Julia offers her hand. “Julia Wicker. I'm the –”

“The Chief of Staff,” he finishes, taking her hand. His skin is warm, even through her leather gloves. “Penny Adiyodi, Director of Security. Nice to finally meet you.”

He doesn't have her official title – no one does, really; it's long archaic nonsense – but she likes what he's come up with. “I wanted to meet with you, actually,” she says. “I mean. For security. At the show tomorrow, and for the gala.”

“Sure,” he says, and steps aside. “I assume you want a tour of the place, as well?”

Julia nods. “Please,” she says.

“Let me show you to my office. You can stash your coat, I'll show you around, and then we can talk.”

He turns to lead her down a side hallway, and she is able to get a good look at the foyer. It's small; there's not enough room for more than a dozen or so people to congregate, but it's welcoming. The walls are made of dark, rich wood, with ornate carvings of twisting vines working their way up to the ceiling, which glistens with what appear to be gold flakes. A chandelier made of delicate curls and twinkling crystals drops to a height just above the door frames.

To her right is a coat check booth, currently shuttered, and right at the entrance to the main hall is a podium, presumably to check invitations. Penny Adiyodi's footsteps echo down the hallway to the left; the door is propped open, but has a brass plaque engraved with _Staff Only._

Julia hurries to follow.

He leads her to a small office. A pile of paper is strewn over a small desk in the corner, with two chairs barely crammed in front. She drapes her coat over one of them and turns back to Penny, who offers her a small, odd smile. “So,” he says. “What's it like working for a _prince_?”

“That depends,” Julia says. “How long is this tour?”

It startles a sound out of him – almost a laugh. "As long as you want it to be.”

“Well,” she says, as he leads her out of his office. “We've known each other since childhood. He's my best friend, and I'd do anything to protect him.”

Penny looks back at her. His expression is... she's not sure. Unimpressed, maybe. Doubting. “And now you're his secretary?”

 _That_ gets her hackles up. “What happened to Chief of Staff?” she asks, and then – because she's _compelled_ to, even though she shouldn't, even though she should have nothing to prove – she continues, “I'm his chief advisor. I manage his schedule and the entire royal staff, and I serve as his bodyguard when he wants to avoid the rest of the staff.”

Penny's expression doesn't change. “And what does he do for you?”

”What?”

“I'm just saying. It sounds like you're the one doing everything for him. Running his life, running his country... So what does he do?”

She takes a moment to consider. Penny clearly means for it to be some kind of cutting question, forcing her to rethink her entire life, but – it's not. She may not have her own life, but she loves what she does have. And... she kind of has an idea of what he's _really_ asking. “I don't want to be Queen,” she says. “There's a huge difference between _knowing_ protocol and _practicing_ it. And I wouldn't nearly have as much power as I do now.” She smirks. “Plus, I get the _best_ gossip.”

That part's true. Cell service is... questionable, in Fillory, but the nature of her job requires her to have the best satellite phone available, and she's in a groupchat with the staffers of two dozen heads of state. They mostly treat her like a curiosity, and she's careful not to reveal anything damaging – or true – about Q, but getting a glimpse into their world had been crucial in laying a road map for the U.N. bid. _Her_ bid.

Penny doesn't look quite convinced, and it bothers her more than she thinks it should, but he's pushing open another door, so she shakes her head and tries to focus.

“This is the reception hall,” he says. “Through there is the foyer, where you came in. We typically use this as a sort of waiting room, you know, let guests mingle while everyone arrives.” He gestures along the left wall. “We can have a small bar set up, or, if you prefer, you can send out catering staff with drinks. Typically champagne, but it's up to you.”

“And appetizers?”

Penny nods. “Also up to you, but it is generally a good idea to have something for your guests to eat. Some will show up on time or even early, to maximize the amount of time they have to mingle; others will show up later. Some will arrive hours late, but you don't have to delay dinner if you don't want to. Do allow time for the reception, though.”

“So the guests can mingle?”

He laughs. “No, so you can get them as drunk as possible before they're asked to open their checkbooks.”

“Ah,” Julia says, biting her lip. “Right.”

He shows her through and into the back room - “The Grand Hall,” Penny says, waving his hand majestically. “We'll set up tables for dinner, and space for dancing, and –”

She tunes him out a little as she's awed by the space. The walls glint with gold. Five chandeliers hang from the ceiling, in the same style as the one in the foyer but far grander. She feels like perhaps she should not be so awestruck, as after all, she lives in a _palace,_ but –

“We're poor,” she says. Penny turns around and stares at her. “I mean. My country. Our palace used to have all kinds of –” She shrugs. There are things about Fillory's history that are... difficult, to discuss. “Well, there was a drought. Before I was born. The king – our Prince Quentin's grandfather – sold much of the finer things in our palace in order to feed the people. Things are – they've gotten better. But with globalization, and our country lagging so far behind in modernization, it'll take a long time before we won't need outside help for such simple things.”

“Like paying for a hospital?” Penny says. Julia winces. She hates that Q has so easily given up their dignity, hard-fought and hard-won and so very tenuous, to the point of begging rich Americans for money.

“Yeah,” she says. “But we're getting there. And being part of it... That's why I do this job.”

“Admirable,” someone says behind her. Julia jumps and turns around. The man is leaning against the door frame in a deliberately casual way. “You must be Miss Wicker.”

“Julia,” Julia says automatically. The man grins.

“Eliot.” He pushes off the door frame and offers his hand. She shakes it. “I got your packet from your courier.”

“And?”

Eliot shrugs. “Easy enough. Should be able to meet all your requests. Honestly, you all are the least demanding clients we've had since I started working here.”

“ _Working_ ,” Penny laughs under his breath. Eliot ignores him.

“Do you have any questions?”

Julia points to the staircase – a massive split staircase bisecting the room. “Where does that go?”

“We have a couple private suites up there,” Eliot says. “Dressing rooms and the like. We mostly use them for weddings, or when people want to make a big entrance.” He raises an eyebrow. “I'm assuming that will be you?”

“Ah. Yes,” Julia says. She gestures to the other side of the room. “And the bar?”

“Handled however you prefer,” he says, but she's distracted again, still looking up the staircase. “Penny, do you want to show her the suites?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure. Julia?”

“Please,” Julia says, and follows him up. At the landing, she turns back around, but Eliot has gone.

Upstairs are two suites, each with two small rooms, a bathroom, and a sitting area. The rooms all have a vanity and some seating. They're not nearly as opulent as the rest of the building, but quite comfortable, and done in tasteful neutrals.

There's also a second staircase, hidden a little out of the way, and tucked into a narrow alcove.

“What's up there?” she asks. Penny sighs.

“The Cottage. Eliot's own private domain. He hosts – well. His own parties.”

Julia can't help herself. Having a feeling she's going to regret it, she asks, “What kind of parties?”

“You ever seen _Eyes Wide Shut_?”

Well, she _did_ ask. “Oh.”

* *

Margo comes by that evening in a flurry of dark hair and shopping bags, the latter of which she dumps on the floor at Eliot's feet before staring up at him with wide, exhausted eyes, and demanding, “make me something strong.”

Eliot bends in half to kiss her cheek before retreating behind the bar. “So how was your day?” he says, like a sing-song. Margo groans and follows, dumping her coat on a bar stool and hoisting herself up on the one beside it.

“Terrible,” she says. “El, I think those pretty, stupid royals of yours are fucked.”

Eliot stares at the shaker. He takes out another and doubles his recipe. “Guest list not working out?”

“It's New Year's Eve,” Margo says. “Nearly all of my A-list already has commitments.”

“Did you get _anyone?_ '” Eliot asks. He takes out two highball glasses, adds ice, and pours. Margo grabs hers and takes a long sip.

“Fucking _Christ_ , thank you,” she sighs, then shakes her head. “B-list is probably mostly available. C-list is almost certainly willing.”

Eliot grimaces. “ _Really_ , Bambi? You're sticking me with that crowd?”

She shrugs. “They're not so bad. A little classless, sure, but it's not like our little foreigners will be able to tell the difference. And they're sufficiently rich and willing to throw their money around, so.”

“Well,” Eliot sighs, and takes a sip of his drink. He lets himself take a moment to savor it; he's really outdone himself with this one. “I guess that will have to do.”

“Oh, cheer up,” Bambi says. “We still have the show tomorrow night, and there are more than a few people on the fence. And a couple I'd bet are willing to break their prior engagements if a more... _attractive_ option comes along. Speaking of, did you get a picture of our boy?”

“Sorry, Bambi,” Eliot says. “I didn't. But a couple of them came by earlier. The woman in charge dropped by to talk with Penny, and a courier dropped in with a folder. Their plans.”

Margo raises an eyebrow. “A _courier,_ you said?”

“What?” Eliot glares at her.

She smirks. “I know that tone. He was cute, wasn't he?”

Eliot starts to protest, but – well, it's pointless. “Yeah, he was cute. Awkward and twitchy. He was wearing this terrible sweater and no coat, even though it's December.”

Margo grins. “Well, if the prince is ugly, maybe we can use your courier as a bargaining chip,” she says, and Eliot frowns.

“It's not – Bambi, he was so _anxious._ I'm not throwing him to your wolves.”

She brings her glass to her lips again, presses a dark purple lipstick mark to the rim as she sips. “Aw, you're already attached,” she teases. “Don't worry, I'll tell them to be gentle.”

Eliot rolls his eyes and goes back to his drink. He wants to argue with her; wants to ensure she's not going to try to use his courier – _the_ courier – to convince the bored wives of investment bankers to show up at the gala. But that's – it scares him, a little, his desire for that, and his reasons for wanting it, and even more, the knowledge that pushing for her to leave the courier alone would just make it more obvious that he –

And he _doesn't_.

“Well, you'll just have to see for yourself, won't you?” he says. She looks at him oddly, but doesn't say anything more. They finish their drinks in silence.

When hers is empty, she slides it over for a refill and changes the subject. “So, are you going over to Daddy's tonight, or are you mine?”

“That depends,” Eliot says, already pouring liquor into the shaker. “Did you have something in mind?”

His Bambi grins, conspiratorially, and he leans in a little. “An old friend of ours is in town with the delegation and invited us to dinner. Well, me, and 'whoever else I can scrounge up'.” She doesn't actually do the finger-quotes, but they're there in her voice regardless. “So, can I? _Scrounge you up_?”

“Who's in town?”

Bambi's smile gets even wider. “ _Hoberman_.”

And, well.

How could he say no to that?

* *

It's not really that Margo _wants_ to spend her evening with her ex, indulging in fanciful hallucinogens. Even though it isn't the absolute worst way she could spend a weekday night, and she hasn't seen Josh in... literal, actual _years,_ and she can't pretend she isn't curious how he ended up as part of a royal delegation, she's not very fond of memory lane. As a general rule.

Things happen. She moves on. That's how it's always been, and she's never had much of a desire to change that.

But she needs a bit more _fortification_ if she's going to spend the following night trying to convince the bottom-barrel socialites that no, actually, she _is_ giving them a _personal invitation_ to a gala at Loria by Idri, and it doesn't absolutely horrify her to be owing them a favor.

And, well. Josh has always been good with... that kind of thing.

Fortification.

So, she recruits Eliot, who goes back to their apartment and calls Idri with a half-assed apology for not making it home for their nightly bang session (as if he's not already hung up on a new flavor-of-the-month). She puts on a short, black, backless halter dress with a plunge almost to her belly button. Eliot does a pair of black leather pants and a tuxedo jacket over a shimmery silver shirt that, somehow, makes mesh look classy.

Her lipstick is bright red, and Eliot's eyes are rimmed with an artfully smudged eyeliner, and he loops his arm through hers and pays for the Uber. Which she ends up being grateful for, because it turns out the place is way the fuck in Brooklyn, in what looks like an industrial park. A sign at the entrance to the park boasts it will become luxury lofts in eighteen months.

“So, not weird at all,” Eliot says.

“It's Hoberman,” Margo responds. It explains everything, and nothing. After all, she hasn't seen him since graduation, when they mutually decided to part ways and he wandered off to 'find himself'. She's always suspected that was just a euphemism for 'find drugs'. As if getting fucked up on good old American hallucinogens suddenly wasn't _good enough_ for him.

“Right,” Eliot says.

Their Uber comes to a stop. “Good luck, kids,” the guy behind the wheel says. Margo glances at Eliot's phone, the screen bright and visible in the dark car. He rates and tips, and climbs out. She follows.

“Well then,” Eliot says. “Shall we?”

She takes his arm again and rolls her eyes. “Don't cock out on me now,' she says, doing her best to hide the waver in her voice. If he hears it, she only hopes he thinks she's worried about being murdered in this place, and not about finding exactly what they expect inside.

He knocks. A small window in the door slides open, revealing a pair of piercing blue eyes. For a brief, awful moment, Margo frantically tries to remember a password she was never given, or come up with a line that will replace the need for a password.

But she isn't asked for one, and soon, the window clicks shut and the door is opened, revealing far too many lights and a person with a beard in an electric blue latex mini dress.

“And who are we?” the person asks.

“I'm Margo. This is Eliot. Where's Josh?”

The person smiles and steps aside. A variety of chairs and beanbags and mattresses are strewn about the place. Music – she can hear the music now, though Margo likely wouldn't choose that word – blares from somewhere. Rhythmic thumping. She pushes in front of Eliot and stalks around the room, ignoring the mass of bodies moving in between the haphazard seating. She knows where she'll find Josh.

She's right, as it turns out.

Josh is in the very middle of the warehouse, lounging on a bright green loveseat, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and admirers. A massive six-foot bong sits at his feet, and a pretty brunette sits at his side.

“ – and sure, I spent a night in the dungeon – a _real_ dungeon, not the fun kind – but it all worked out in the end, because – Margo!”

He tries to stand up, fails, and waves her over. “Margo, I'm so glad you came. Did – ah, _Eliot._ ” Josh digs around in the pockets of his pink silk robe. “I brought you guys something. A little gift from the royal gardens.”

Margo squints at the baggie. “Mushrooms?” she asks. “Really.”

“Ah, ah,” Josh laughs, waving the bag. “These are _special._ ”

The brunette giggles. “Fillorian mushrooms,” she says, and there, again – that same feeling she'd had at brunch, the memory of a place she couldn't possibly remember; had likely never known. “You've never tasted _anything_ so sweet.”

Margo cranks up the power of her glare and aims it right at the girl. “And you are?”

Immediately, Josh goes serious. As serious as he ever can get, anyway. He puts one hand on his bong and manages to stand, wobbling over to her. “Hey, _hey._ Are you _jealous_?”

She shoves at him, irritated. “Ew. Don't flatter yourself,” she says.

“This is Fen,” Josh says, waving in... what he probably thinks is the general direction of his – guest. It's not. She waves. He drops his voice so that only the closest dozen people can hear. “ _Ambassador_ Fen. United Nations.”

“Uh huh,” Margo says. Fucking hell. “You sure it's a good idea –”

Behind her, Eliot clears his throat. “As _riveting_ as watching your little reunion is, I believe you were offering us drugs.”

Josh passes Eliot the bag. He plucks out a mushroom, turns it over it in his palm for a minute, and then slips it back in with the rest and hands the whole thing back to him.

“Hmm. Last time you showed up with mushrooms the paranoia lasted three days. No offense.”

“None taken,” Josh says, and digs through his other pocket. This time he comes up with a baggie of multicolored candies. “These'll make you feel calm and floaty, no hallucinations, no panic. Well, not that I've seen.” Eliot grins and pops a green candy into his mouth.

“Much obliged. Now if you'll excuse me.” He wanders off into the crowd, leaving Margo all alone with her ex and his – ambassador friend. The absolute fucking _shit._

Josh holds up the two baggies, one in each hand, and shakes them. “So, what's _your_ poison?”

Margo rolls her eyes and grabs for the candies. Josh sighs.

“You two have gotten boring in your old age.”

She shakes a pink candy into her palm and shoves it in her mouth. It tastes like bubblegum. “Fuck you.”

Josh laughs and goes back to flop down on his sofa. Immediately, Fen drops her head on his shoulder. Margo follows, folding her legs underneath herself as she sits.

“So, is this a... thing?” she asks, waving her hand in their general direction.

“What? No,” Josh says. “I'm not her _type_. Though you might be.” Fen giggles against his shoulder.

Margo snorts. “ _Please_ ,” she says. There's a tremble in her breath, and the sudden, angry bravado that always seems to worm its way into her voice when Eliot teases her about –

Her stomach is fluttery.

It's probably just the drugs. Her fingers feel like daisies. She closes her eyes and lets the room spin around her.

* *

They wake up late the following afternoon. Margo's up first, the bright afternoon sunlight streaming into her eyes, and she curls her bare toes against her cool, not-quite-silk sheets. A heavy arm is slung over her stomach, pushing up her cami and exposing her stomach to the warm room. She kicks at Eliot's sleeping form; he's wearing just his mesh shirt from the night before, and a pair of assless briefs she's almost certain don't belong to him. He snorts, inelegantly, against her shoulder.

“Wh's time?” he mutters.

“Almost three,” she says. He grumbles and buries his face in his pillow. She cards her fingers through the absolute disaster of his curls. “What time do you have to be at work?”

He rolls over and glares at her. “Five,” he says. “The reception's at seven, show starts at eight-thirty.”

“So, plenty of time,” Margo teases. His glare darkens.

“Two hours is _not_ plenty of time,” he says, sounding horrified. “What do you take me for?”

She rolls her eyes and kicks at him again. “Then go shower. I'll order breakfast.”

“Bagel,” he says, before, finally, rolling off her bed and heading to the shower. She checks out his bare ass as he goes – it's art, and she's a fucking connoisseur – before grabbing her phone off her nightstand. Her battery's under twenty percent, because of course it is, but it's enough to open DoorDash and get their usual order entered at the deli on the corner.

She's a little unstable when she finally gets up, fishing around the floor for her soft gray sweatpants, but it's not unbearable and she only has a hint of a headache. Either whatever Josh was passing out at the party has the world's mildest comedown, or it has a really short half-life and they've managed to sleep it all off. She's curious which it is. Margo had failed to get the name of Josh's dealer out of him last night, but... well, her usual charms never really worked on him, and she's out of practice. There will be time, though; more than enough to get it right. She's sure of it, even if she's not quite about having Josh back in her life.

The food arrives before Eliot gets out of the shower. She eats hers – cream cheese, lox and capers on an everything bagel – while he runs the blow-dryer. Eventually, he emerges, wearing skinny black slacks and a lilac undershirt with a deep v-neck.

“So, purple's the theme?” she asks, wiping the last poppy seeds from the corners of her mouth. “Hoping your little courier is there?”

“Fuck off,” he says, though it's more to his food than to her. Egg whites, tomatoes and avocado on wheat. The coffeemaker beeps on the counter and he groans. “Never mind. You're a _goddess,_ Bambi.”

“Damn right,” she says.

He pours her a cup as well and places it in front of her, kissing the top of her head as he does. She drinks slowly, savoring the premium, imported dark roast she'd gotten as “an early Christmas gift” from one of her clients, who hadn't bothered to ask if she actually celebrated the holiday (though even if she had been asked, Margo wasn't going to turn down free coffee).

Eliot, who's clearly more hung over than her and as a result has devolved into a goddamn _neanderthal,_ downs his mug and attacks his bagel with absolutely zero grace. Margo wrinkles her nose but doesn't say anything. She'll give him shit for it later, when he's less _this._

She's not even halfway through her coffee when he finishes, crumples the trash from his breakfast into a ball, and disappears into his bedroom. While he's gone, Margo takes advantage of the peace to rescue her phone from its charger and scroll through her Instagram, mindlessly liking her clients' brainless selfies. Her own profile is mostly scenery interspersed with suggestively artistic shots of herself that show little, if any, of her face, and promotions for her clients' events. Her post about tonight's show has over four thousand likes.

Her post about the gala has yet to break five hundred.

Eventually, while she's staring at Josh's profile and wondering how she ended up on his page, Eliot emerges. Purple is definitely the theme, she notes. His shirt is muted purple-gray, his vest dark plum, and his tie gray with a subtle paisley. His hair is perfectly styled. He's wearing eyeliner, as always, but with more subtlety than he did last night. His black suit jacket is draped over his arm, and she'd be willing to bet he'll lose it before the night is over. He grabs his coat off the counter and checks the pockets for his wallet and keys.

“See you soon,” he says.

“Hmm,” says Margo, and swipes away from Josh's Instagram.


	4. Chapter 4

There is something to be said for showing up to an event _early._ For one, there's the jump start on drinking before actual social duties take over. And for another, there's the ability to see everyone else enter.

The drawbacks include having to stand in heels much longer than would, generally, be preferable. Especially when you're also in a glorified corset. So Margo stakes out a bar stool and perches there. Kady wordlessly pours her an Old Fashioned, which she accepts with a laugh.

“Don't look so sad,” she says. “I'm sure tonight won't be _that_ bad.”

Kady grimaces. Then, as an older, balding white man approaches and leans way too far over the bar, she puts on her fakest smile.

Margo tunes out their conversation, knowing if he gets too familiar Kady won't hesitate to punch him in the nose, and scans the room. People have started arriving, mostly friends of the designer who are immediately gathered up by one of her assistants and swept off backstage. One or two very-very-nouveau-riche girls, arm in arm with their deeply out of place boyfriends. A group of strangely-dressed weirdos, which Margo doesn't think much of until she sees –

Eliot appears at her elbow. “That the delegation?”

“I think so. I think that's our Countess there.” She nods towards a young woman with board-straight platinum hair, wearing the most _atrocious_ blue dress she's ever seen. The Countess is, almost immediately, surrounded by a cloud of sequins. She has the most terrible urge to _rescue_ her.

“Huh,” Eliot says, and looks like he wants to go searching through the crowd for _his courier._ Margo sips her drink. Not her go-to, not by a mile, but Kady always adds something _extra_ that almost changes her mind.

“You should –” Margo starts, but she doesn't get to finish her sentence, because just then, Idri's snapping his fingers and waving Eliot over. He sighs.

“Duty calls.”

She tries to give him a sympathetic look. It clearly doesn't work, but she doesn't care. Even more girls have surrounded the little Countess, whose voice is getting louder and louder.

“– Not my first time in New York, no – No, I went to – I haven't, I –”

Margo shoves a girl in a shiny, skin-tight pink dress out of the way and plants herself right in front of the Countess.

“Hello,” she says, dipping into a half-second curtsy that, honestly, probably comes out more sarcastic than anything. It's been too fucking long since she's had to be sincere, she thinks.

The Countess stops. Gapes at her.

She barrels on. “Margo Hanson. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Um,” she says, adorably. Her ice blue eyes are wide behind her glasses, the thick black plastic framing them like artwork. “Hello, Ms. Hanson?”

Pink Dress is back, clearing her throat and trying to push Margo aside, so she grabs the blonde's elbow and steers her away from the tittering crowd. “It's so wonderful to meet you, Countess,” she says, loudly, and then softer: “They're status climbers. You can do better.”

Her face gets this pinched look when she's extra confused, Margo learns.

“Who –”

“Socialite whisperer and the best half of the little dream-team you've got planning your gala.”

“Oh!” the Countess says, stopping in her tracks. “Oh, I think you want – Julia's around here somewhere –” she looks around anxiously. “She's – I mean, most of this has been her doing, Or – Quentin. Prince Quentin.” Her eyes settle on someone in the crowd, and she looks relieved. “Back there, against the wall.”

Margo follows her gaze to a young man, leaning against the far wall, alone. He has long brown hair that brushes his shoulders, and he's – from this distance, it's hard to make out his features, but he's definitely cute. Maybe even hot enough to work with. She'll have to sneak a photo later. For now, though – she needs to focus. “No, Countess,” she says with a laugh. “I wanted _you._ To speak with you. Come, let's get you a drink. Kady can make anything you want.”

She nods and says, quietly, “Alice.”

“What?”

“You can – call me Alice. Thanks, for. That.”

Margo smiles. “A beautiful girl in crisis? How could I resist.”

Alice looks down.”Right,” she says, then glances up at Kady, who's watching them both with this fucking _look_. Margo could kill her. “I don't care. Just. Strong. Please.”

“You got it, your Highness,” Kady says. Alice's mouth does this complicated thing, like she wants to protest her form of address, but ultimately she just sighs.

Up close, the dress she's wearing is even worse than Margo could believe. It's a washed out blue, with a skirt down past her knees and three-quarter sleeves that gives serious _Mrs. Waterford_ vibes. The neckline is _way_ too high for her absolutely incredible assets. Margo is more than a little jealous; her own dress consists of a black corset top with swirling gold detail, which – she can definitely work with what she's got, and she loves her body, but. She doesn't quite balance out her dress's voluminous black skirt.

Margo had gone with a simple black choker, because her dress doesn't _need_ anything else, thank you. Alice's necklace, to contrast, is made of three strands of diamonds and pearls, echoing the headband of three rows of diamonds she wears in her hair.

“I'm glad you came tonight,” Margo says, as Kady slides a tall glass of something neon blue across the bar to Alice. “I think you'll really enjoy the show.”

Alice smiles. It's an odd thing, carefully practiced but just off enough that Margo can tell she's had precious little to be genuinely happy for, “Thank you for the invitation,” she says. She looks like she wants to say more, but doesn't, and goes for her drink instead.

She comes up coughing..

“Too strong?” Margo asks. Alice shakes her head.

“No. No, it's good. Thank you, um.” She glances over at the bartender.

“Kady,” Kady reminds her.

“Thank you, Kady.”

When she goes for another sip, Kady rolls her eyes. Margo bites back a laugh.

“So, Countess,” she says. “I was, honestly, thrilled when Julia asked if your delegation could attend. The designer's a friend of mine, you know. I was thinking – hoping, maybe – that you might find inspiration. Something you might want to wear to the gala, I mean.”

Alice blinks. “I. Uh. I already have a dress for the gala,” she says. “Did you – did Julia say something implying I needed help with that?”

“No,” Margo says, quickly. “No, not at all. This is all me, I promise. Look, you've got amazing assets, but if you keep hiding them you're just going to look – ”

“Look _what?_ ” Alice bites out. Her voice has gone cold and angry and nearly sends Margo toppling over.

Well, fuck. Nowhere to go now. “Um. Just. Look, you want the world to take you seriously as a modern nation, right? Trust me, you have to look the part.”

Alice takes three long swigs of her drink and places the glass on the bar. “I think I can handle my own image just fine,” she says. “And by the way, I'm not some clueless foreigner who just crawled out of a mud shack. Thanks for the drink. I should find my prince now.”

And with that, she vanishes into the crowd.

“Nice,” Kady says. Margo glares at her. “What? I always knew your 'I'm more sophisticated than everyone in this room' thing would backfire on you someday.”

Margo grabs the Countess's half-finished drink and downs the rest of it. “It's not over yet,” she says, though as she does, she wonders why she cares so much. Not for her own image, not _really,_ but she can't quite put her finger on the real reason.

Deciding not to worry about it for now, she leans over the bar and steals a pineapple garnish. She won't think of meeting the Countess Alice as wasted time, but the show is approaching and she needs to plant the seeds of the gala in as many minds as possible, so that afterwards, when they're all much much drunker, they'll agree to attend without much prodding at all.

Her first target: Pink Dress.

* *

Eliot lets the dressing room door slam behind him, quickly muffling the shouts so that they don't leak out to the rest of the club. Forget what he told Idri when he insisted that, of _course,_ his son _must_ show his new line at Idri's own club – this was a _terrible_ idea, and he's already regretting it.

Idri's son, Ess – fashion designer, walking entitlement complex, all-around nightmare – had nearly stabbed him with a hair chopstick when he suggested drinks for his models, though he suspected anything he might have said would make Ess want to stab him. As far as Eliot knows, Idri's kid doesn't know a thing about Eliot or the steady stream of boytoys that came before him, but at the same time he doubts Ess would be surprised. He'd ignored the attempted stabbing, snatched the hair chopstick from Ess's hand, and repeated the drink offer again, this time a little louder and a little more pointedly. The girls had all happily agreed to a round of Bellinis, which just pissed Ess off more.

So, Bellinis for the models, and if Eliot's instincts are right – which they _always_ are – an extra-strong vodka sour for the designer from hell. He's not sure it'll do much to calm him the _fuck_ down, but maybe it'll knock him out sooner rather than later. To the relief of all. A gaggle of grateful models would, generally, be just the kind of reward Eliot would be after, but Ess is is strictly womenswear only. A fucking travesty, honestly.

He's so distracted by his righteous musings that he entirely trips over someone just below his line of sight. Which, he thinks, as he rights himself, is just _rude._

“Shit,” a familiar voice says. “I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

Eliot turns around and his breath catches in his throat. There, crouched on the floor, floppy brown hair hanging in his eyes, is the courier. He blinks stupidly for a moment, frozen to the spot.

“Um,” he says, stupidly. “Yeah, I – shit, here,” he stutters, finally getting his shit together and offering his hand. “That was my fault.”

The courier reaches up and takes his hand. As Eliot hauls him up, he finds himself struck by the man's hands. He's so _small_ and awkward, Eliot would never have predicted he'd have such broad, strong hands. He's kind of fascinated.

“Eliot, right?” the courier asks, and Eliot realizes he's still clinging to his hand.

“Yeah. And you're – uh. Q?” he asks, like he could have possibly forgotten. Q nods, his hair falling in front of his eyes, and Eliot can't help but reach out and tuck it behind his ear. Q startles, his wide brown eyes staring up at him, but he doesn't shove Eliot away. “I was just going to get some drinks for our honored guests,” he says. “Will you join me?”

The boy shrugs. “I could. Um. Use one.”

“Excellent,” Eliot says, turning the full force of his smile on the courier. He presses a hand to his back, between his shoulder blades. Q is wearing a suit in a dark, almost-black gray, but just _not black_ enough that its appearance is somewhat disconcerting. It's made, Eliot realizes, as his fingers trail over the weave, of some kind of wool; he doesn't think there are any synthetics in it, but it isn't the kind of tight, expensive weave he's used to picking out for his own suits. Hand spun, then, he assumes. And – Q reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. The fabric must be rough and itchy.

As he leads the courier to the bar, he makes a solemn promise to himself that he will find him a better suit if it kills him.

“Here, sit,” he says, pushing Q at the nearest bar stool and death-glaring its current occupant – a scrawny blond in a bright purple suit – into scramming. Q looks at him dubiously, but obeys, climbing into the seat awkwardly.

Eliot jumps behind the bar and tosses his suit jacket on the back counter. Kady stops what she's doing – mixing a mojito, by the looks of it, _fuck_ whoever ordered that – and looks his way, clearly unimpressed. Eliot ignores her and rolls up his sleeves.

“So,” he says. “I think – sweet, but not _too_ sweet. Definitely fruity, but something just a little sharper.”

“We mostly have ales and ciders back in – back home,” he says, grimacing a bit. The expression is completely fascinating.

“Wines?”

“No, god no,” Q says, and shudders. “Attempts were made, but... grapes just don't grow that well in our soil. We import, sometimes, but it's mainly for the – uh – upper classes.”

Eliot digs around for a shaker. “Truly horrifying,” he says. “Remind me to introduce you to a few. For now, though...” He contemplates the gins. There are a few options here, depending on how he wants to play this. The obscure bottles, for the customer who thinks they can stump him; the expensive brands, for the customer who wants to flaunt their money; the familiar names, for the customer who knows what they want and how they expect it to taste. The courier isn't any of these, but – the first two groups of liquors include his go-tos when he wants someone to be impressed by him.

Oddly, though, he doesn't feel a great need for Q to be impressed, and doubts that he would even notice anyway. He goes for the Bombay Dry; Eliot doesn't want to overwhelm him, after all, and he expects there will be plenty of reason for Q to be impressed by him very shortly.

The gin is added to the shaker with lemon juice and a slightly sweeter than average syrup (the one he keeps on hand for Margo, and pretends he doesn't). He carefully watches the courier's face while he shakes the cocktail, noting the way his eyes linger on Eliot's hands, his wrists, his forearms. Eliot tosses the shaker in the air, flipping it once, just across his eyeline so Q is forced to meet his gaze, and he smirks.

The boy has the gall to fucking _blush_.

Eliot fills a glass with crushed ice and strains the drink, holding the shaker up higher than is necessary just to see those wide brown eyes trail the line of liquid from Eliot's hand on the shaker to the other on the glass.

He finishes it with a drizzle of _crème de mure –_ a basic blackberry liqueur he found hiding behind the bottle of peach – and garnishes with a straw and a lemon wedge and – because he feels like the boy deserves it – four blackberries.

It is, surprisingly, a little nervewracking as he slides the glass across the bar and waits for the verdict.

“This is amazing,” it comes. Q looks a little stunned.

“I'm glad you like it,” Eliot says, his voice wavering a little.

The courier nods. “I do,” he says, and then, after another sip, “I don't want to sleep with Idri.”

That – is so fucking out of the blue Eliot doesn't know what to do with it. “Okay?”

“It's just. Yesterday, you implied. And I wanted to make it clear.”

 _Oh._ Well, fuck. “Yeah, about that,” Eliot starts, raking his fingers through his hair. “I can be an asshole.”

Q takes another drink and smiles at him over the rim of the glass. “I've been accused of worse,” he says. Eliot just kind of blinks at him. The smile is – slight, almost ironic, but his cheek is dimpling slightly and Eliot finds himself determined to discover what else will make him smile.

He's a little lost in the courier's expression, so much that he fails to notice his phone the first three times it vibrates against his leg. He manages to answer just in time to hear Idri on the other end, demanding to know where he's gotten to.

Eliot grimaces. “I'll be right there – yes, I'm – okay, okay.” He jabs at the off button as hard as he can and slams the phone on the bar.

“Duty calls?” Q asks, with an odd little twist of his lips.

“Unfortunately,” Eliot says, reaching back to grab his suit jacket and draping it over his shoulder. “It sounds like the show will be starting soon, if you need to return to your people.”

Q hums. “Yes, I – I'll do that. Um. Good luck.”

It stops Eliot in his tracks, a little, and he glances back. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

* *

Quentin watches Eliot leave. The tips of his fingers, where they press against his drink glass, burn a little from the cold, but he hardly notices. He'd been so ready, when Eliot tripped over him, to hit him with _that's right, I'm the Prince, you fucker,_ but then he'd gotten caught in Eliot's piercing hazel eyes, and Eliot still thought he was some kind of royal messenger boy, and his hand had touched Quentin's back and he'd made him a drink and Quentin – kind of forgot, honestly.

It was nice, too. The only thing Eliot expected of him was to sit at the bar and let Eliot mix a cocktail for him. He hadn't wanted a _single thing._ He'd been watching Alice, before Eliot stumbled over him, as she was surrounded by people. He'd wondered if he should rescue her, but he hadn't wanted to get caught up in the maelstrom.

And then –

Eliot. Tall, stunning Eliot, with Quentin's nickname on his lips. And he'd forgotten – well, everything.

He takes another sip from his glass. Lemon, and blackberry, and the slight burn of alcohol, fuzzing his mind a little. He can't forget the way Eliot's long fingers had curled around the cocktail shaker, the way the tendons and muscles in his forearms flexed when he shook and poured. Quentin had – he'd wanted to sit there for hours, ignoring the fucking _fashion show,_ while he watched Eliot craft drinks. He'd wanted to find out what else Eliot thought he might like.

Which is why,

Eliot's phone is sitting on the bar, where he'd dropped it after getting called back to work. It wouldn't be that difficult to hand it to the other bartender – a woman with dark lipstick and black curls who speaks in a fake-sultry voice to her customers and rolls her eyes when her back is turned to them – to return to Eliot, but...

He pockets it instead.

“Somehow,” a voice behind him says, and Quentin jumps, nearly spilling what's left in his glass. Which would be a fucking tragedy, honestly. He whips around to see Alice there, frowning. “I don't think hiding at the bar is exactly helping with the whole visibility thing.”

She's probably right. He sighs.

“I'm sorry, Vix,” he says. Drains his drink. “Lead me to the wolves.”

“They're not so bad, really,” she says, slipping her arm into Quentin's and twisting her mouth into a smile. “One of our party planners tried to rescue me and she was – well. I'd fire her if Julia didn't think that we need her services.”

Quentin covers her hand with his own. “Somehow, that doesn't surprise me,” he says, remembering his first meeting with Eliot. “Is Julia sure we need her?”

“Yes, but – I'm not. I mean, I thought I was doing just fine with them on my own, but apparently they're...” she raises her chin and puts on the most royal, arrogant air she can muster; the one she only really uses when she's being _the Countess._ “'Status Climbers'. And I don't know, she might be right. I told them about the hospital we want to build and they seemed very touched, but also a little too interested in coming to visit Fillory once we've broken ground.”

Quentin grimaces. “I hate tourism.”

“I know. But, look, it's not the worst thing in the world. We're going to have to compromise on _some_ things if you want the hospital to be built. One girl is even offering to fund the entire maternity ward if we put her family's name on it.”

“It's just a name,” he says. “Anyone else?”

“Her friend – well, _friend,_ ” Alice laughs awkwardly. “I think they were rivals. She wants to fund the oncology department. Name it after –”

“ _No,_ ” Quentin says, before he can stop himself. He bites his tongue, forcing himself not to show the horror he's feeling. Alice looks at him oddly. “I mean –”

“– her grandfather. Are you okay?”

Quentin waves his hand, brushing aside her concerns. “I'm fine,” he says. “Let's just. Go sit with the rich Americans and watch the show.”

Alice smiles at him, steps closer as they head toward the runway. “According to Margo, I should look for something to wear to the gala,” she says, and he can hear her bitterness. “Apparently I look like some – some poor farm girl who herds goats on the far side of the mountains.”

“That's crap,” Quentin says, leaning into her. He doesn't know a damn thing about fashion; for all he knows, that's exactly how Alice looks to the Americans. But he _does_ know that no matter what, she doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. “You're gorgeous.”

* *

The show is tedious, as is the brief, mandatory reception afterwards. Alice tracks down the designer, Ess, who turns out to be Idri's son, to inquire about a floaty dress in his collection. It had been pink (Alice keeps calling the color 'dusty rose') and gold and although Quentin generally doesn't have a strong opinion about these things, he does know she would look spectacular in it. Ess stares at Alice's chest and says he would need to make 'alterations', but it would be ready by the gala.

They leave pretty quickly after that, with Quentin pleading exhaustion. He expects Alice to refuse, but she just quietly agrees, and they slip out while Julia is distracted by the dark-haired girl at the bar.

“Thanks,” Quentin says quietly, once they're tucked away in the car. “Um. That was. A lot.”

“Yeah,” Alice says. “I – I think I liked it, though.”

Quentin glances sideways at her. “The attention?”

“Well, you don't have to put it like _that,_ ” she says. “But. Yes.”

Quentin considers this. It's – she deserves that, plain and simple. She deserves that kind of adoration. He hopes he can give her that, when she's Queen, but – honestly, he's not sure he can. He cares about her, he _does,_ but lately, he's been... wondering.

She wants to be a Queen. She _deserves_ to be a Queen. She's brilliant, far smarter than him, and she's shrewd. And it'd be easy for him, _so_ easy, to just fade into the background and let her take over.

But. He knows that wouldn't exactly be the best thing for them, or for – for their country, either. She should be Queen, she should _rule,_ but she deserves to have an actual partner at her side when she does.

And he.

Isn't so sure he's that person.

“Well,” he says. “If nothing else, I'm feeling better about the gala. I think –” out of nowhere, he's fighting back tears, swallowing a lump in his throat - “I think we might actually get the hospital built.”

Not for the first time, he feels the weight of Alice's stare, and knows that she wants to ask. The thing he has, quite deliberately, avoided discussing.

He ignores it, and she doesn’t ask.

The rest of the ride to the hotel is quiet, as is the trip up the elevator to their suite, and by the time they finally make it into their room, Quentin is –

He's exhausted. He helps Alice with the zipper on her dress, feels a faint stirring as he slowly exposes her warm skin to the room, and almost acts on it when she turns around and stares up at him, expectant. She leans in, and he steps back, clearing his throat.

“Um. Sorry,” he says. “It's just. Been a lot, tonight. I think – I just want to sleep. If that's okay?”

“Sure,” she says, shaking her head, and he can see the embarrassed flush on her cheeks. “Yeah, sorry. You're right. I'll just?” She waves towards the bathroom and hurries across the room, clutching her dress to her breasts. Quentin sighs.

He prepares for bed slowly. His suit jacket, shirt, and tie end up draped over a chair in the corner of the room, and his socks are tossed on the floor with his shoes. He strips out of his pants last – after carefully rescuing Eliot's phone from the pocket and hiding it in a drawer in the bedside table – and slips under the covers in his undershirt and boxers. The room is warm enough that he does not need anything more to be comfortable.

Alice returns some time later; Quentin has closed his eyes, although he's not quite asleep yet, and doesn't move as Alice crawls in behind him. He hears her sigh, whisper a _good night, Q_ to the room, and she turns off the light.

He doesn't think for a moment she believes he's really asleep, but it's easier to maintain the lie, and within a few minutes he's asleep anyway.

* *

Eliot wakes in Idri's bed.

This is, ordinarily, a pleasant experience. After a successful evening at Loria, he returns home with the _king,_ and in the morning, finds himself feeling satisfied, and sore, and more often than not, entirely victorious.

This morning is... different. Idri is still asleep beside him, snoring softly into his expensive pillow. Last week, Eliot woke him with his mouth, and they'd spent nearly an hour and a half in bed before being forced to arise and face the morning. This morning, he rolls out from between the sheets and pulls on his underwear, making his way into the bathroom as silently as possible so as not to wake him.

He closes the door behind him before he flips the lights on, and frowns at his own face in the unforgiving mirror. His eyeliner is smudged, making it difficult to tell what is makeup and what's just his own discolored skin. There are lines in his face from the wrinkles of the pillowcase.

Sighing, he turns on the shower and returns to the sink to wash his face and brush his teeth. The shower doesn't technically need time to get hot – it'll do that in under ten seconds – but it's a habit he has from the places he and Margo lived when they were first starting out in New York City. And anyway, it's not like Idri can't afford the water and heating bills.

Eliot presses his palms to the marble countertop when he's finished and stares at himself in the mirror. He watches the image of himself fade as the steam from the shower clouds the mirror.

The door opens.

“I was hoping to find you already in the shower,” Idri says, his deep voice made even huskier from sleep. “I wanted to join you.”

Eliot sighs. “I didn't want to wake you,” he says, trying to keep his voice light and pleasant. “And you know me. Always need a little time to _process_ a party after it's happened.”

Idri hums and wraps his arms around Eliot's waist, dropping his chin onto his shoulder. Eliot takes a deep breath and plasters on his glossiest smile.

“But, since you _are_ awake...” He turns in Idri's arms and rubs his hands over the strong, bare biceps. “Join me? I can blow you, if you'd like.”

“Hmm,” Idri hums, tilting his head to the side. Scrutinizing him. Eliot freezes, waiting for his judgment. “That's alright. I'll leave you to your thoughts.” He drops a kiss on Eliot's forehead. “Lots to prepare. That gala of yours is only three days away.”

_Three days._

He'll have to – shit, he'll have to find his phone. Probably buried under the mountain of clothes from the night before. Figure out if Margo nailed down her guest list. Check Kady's sous-chefs and waitstaff. Contact the Fillorians and determine if there's anything they've forgotten to mention.

But first.

He strips his underwear off and tosses them in Idri's hamper and steps into the shower. Immediately, all the weird – _whatever_ he's been feeling towards the man vanishes in a haze of truly _incredible_ water pressure. Fuck it; this is the kind of shit he'd marry for.

After awhile, with his fingers pruning and the encroaching suspicion that Idri is getting annoyed with Eliot monopolizing his shower, Eliot emerges. He wraps a fluffy white towel around his middle, twists his hair up into another towel and flps the end back, like a turban, and wanders back into the bedroom.

Idri isn't there; not that Eliot would have expected him to be. His penthouse is enormous, and he typically prefers to do his work in either the kitchen or his private office (where Eliot is _not_ allowed, no matter how many times he suggested blowing Idri under the desk, or Idri fucking him over the desk, or – it's remained off limits). He picks through his clothes on the floor, checking pockets, shaking the legs and arms onto the floor, and, coming up short, goes looking for his coat.

He passes Idri on the way, sitting at the kitchen table with an espresso cup and his laptop. The coat is draped over one of the chairs, and it, too, proves to be phoneless. He sighs.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asks.

Idri glances up at him. “What for?”

“To call mine,” he admits. “I either tossed it somewhere around the apartment when we got home last night, or I left it at Loria and it's still there, or someone found it.”

Wordlessly, Idri passes over his phone. Eliot types in his own number manually; he's not sure what Idri has him saved under, and figures it'd be too much work to figure out. Idri, in his own phone, is under _DILF._ No emojis, because that would be crass.

Turns out Idri just has him listed under _Eliot Waugh,_ which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. The phone rings on the line, but he doesn't hear it in the apartment. He heads back into the bedroom, hoping he missed something and didn't –

“Hello?” someone picks up. The voice is familiar.

“I believe you found my phone,” Eliot says, attempting to remain polite. It could, after all, just be a simple misunderstanding.

The person on the other end gasps. “Oh! Yes. You left your phone on the bar, just before the show. I wanted to give it back before I left but I didn't see you afterwards and I thought –”

And it clicks. “Q?”

“Yeah, it's – hi, Eliot.”

“And you have my phone.”

“It's not like I was going to _steal_ it,” Q says, quickly. “I just wanted to – for safe keeping, you know? Uh. We can meet, if you want. Get coffee. Uh. Give your phone back, of course.”

Eliot can't keep the smile off his face. “Yeah,” he says. “I uh. I'm on the lower east side, but I can come up to you. Pick you up.”

“Yeah,” Q says, quickly. “Um. Forty minutes? I'm staying with the – with the delegation from – you know our hotel?”

“Make it an hour,” Eliot says, looking down at his towel, at the water droplets still making their way down his legs. “And yes, I know your hotel.”

“Great. Um. See you then.”

“See you then,” Eliot repeats, and Q hangs up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor warning for this chapter: discussion of Christopher Plover; aligns with canon.

Idri gives him access to the car with his blessing, which Todd ends up getting yelled at for verifying.

“Um,” Todd says, when Idri finally gets off the phone. His eyes are wide and he looks a little shocked. “Sorry, Mr. Waugh. I'll have the car brought around right away.”

Eliot is vaguely aware that Todd's job, which likely consists of getting screamed at by many other wealthy assholes, is only part of whatever life he has outside this opulent lobby, but also, he doesn't care.

The car comes around and he sweeps out the door.

Idri's driver, Carlton – a scrawny, haughty white kid who Eliot is pretty sure enjoyed Idri's _patronage_ at some point – greets him with another 'Mr. Waugh' and starts driving north. Eliot tilts his head back and watches out the window.

Snow has started to fall in a gentle flurry that the radio says will accumulate to four inches by the evening. Which means by morning, the buildings will be covered in a sheen of white, and the streets will be steel gray.

Q is waiting outside the hotel when they pull up, He's in jeans and a dark red sweater, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and no coat. Eliot can see him shivering. He hurries over to the car and slips in next to Eliot before Carlton can get out to help him.

“Um,” Eliot says. Q is radiating cold. “Don't you have a coat? I thought Fillory was surrounded by mountains.”

The boy flinches at the name of his country. “It – ah – it is. I have. I forgot it,” he stammers awkwardly, then digs around in his pocket and produces Eliot's phone.

Eliot grabs at it immediately, pressing it close to his chest. “You,” he says. “Thank you. I don't know what I would have –” It vibrates against him.

“You, uh, got some texts,” Q says. “I didn't look at them. Obviously. Didn't know the passcode. From someone called Bambi?”

Four missed texts. He unlocks his phone, sees that three were from last night and one was just sent a few minutes ago. Oh, she's going to _kill_ him.

 _'Left phone at Loria, just retrieved. Courier had it,'_ he sends. A few seconds later, he gets a response:

_'Well, fuck you too. Are you with him? Where are you?'_

_'Getting coffee'_ he replies, then locks his phone and tucks it in his pocket.

The car heads north along the perimeter of the park for a few blocks before finally stopping in front of their destination. The interior of the cafe has a sweet, rustic style, and the menu features the standard Fifth Avenue brunch fare and a wide selection of coffees. But those aren't the reasons Eliot picked this particular place, he thinks, as he watches Q crouch In front of a display case.

This place has the best pastries in upper Manhattan, and from the way Q is nearly pressing his face against the glass as he scans the offerings, he was more than right to play to the boy's sweet tooth.

“See anything you like?” he asks. Q glances up. “Come on, let's get a table.”

They find a cozy table in the corner, next to the window, and he drapes his coat over his chair. Today, he's wearing dark brown slacks, a forest-green shirt, a tan waistcoat with a subtle gold pinstripe, and a brown-and-gold patterned tie. Q's eyes widen when he sees him.

“I didn't – I would have dressed up, if I'd known you were going to be...” he trails off.

Eliot laughs. “It's an art,” he says. “One I particularly enjoy. Somehow, I don't think that's your preference.”

“I like to be comfortable,” Q admits. “Though – uh – certain people. Have given me – They don't like it. It's – impropriety.”

“Fuck 'em,” Eliot says, and Q actually laughs. It's a quiet, almost silent sound, but his mouth splits into a smile and his shoulders shake a little. Eliot is mesmerized.

They end up ordering a sample plate of pastries, because Q can't decide what he wants, and he defers to Eliot on the coffee. He picks a hazelnut blend for them both, and asks for a half pump of caramel in Q's, which earns him another smile. There's a slight crinkling at the corner of his brown eyes.

While they wait, Eliot checks his phone again. Bambi has texted twice more, both rambling updates about her guest list followed by a demand to know where he is.

He's probably going to regret this, he knows, but he sighs and texts her the name of the cafe.

“Are you okay?” Q asks.

Eliot smiles at him. “Of course,” he says.

Then their coffee and pastries arrive, and he forgets about Margo entirely, completely entranced by the view in front of him – the awkward little courier licking chocolate from his thumb.

He sips his coffee slowly, pausing occasionally to dip a biscotti in the hot liquid. He discovers Q likes the chocolate offerings well enough, but prefers flaky dough sprinkled with powdered sugar (which clings to his lips). His face when he tastes the lemon tart is – well. It makes Eliot's throat go dry.

“El? Eliot!” Someone raps on the table. He startles out of his thoughts and turns to see Margo, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Bambi,” Eliot sighs. “Did you seriously come all the way up here just to –”

She rolls her eyes. “Don't flatter yourself. I'm _working._ I have some clients willing to bail on their prior commitments for your little gala, but they need to be assured they'll outshine the – _competition_.”

“So you're going shopping.”

“Hmm,” she says, then turns to Q. “What –”

“Bambi, this is Q. The courier,” he says quickly, and hopes she doesn't say anything too embarrassing.

She looks him up and down. “He's not _that_ cute,” she teases, then tilts her head to the side and scrutinizes him. Q shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Um,” he says.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, and laughs. “You're not a courier.”

Eliot stares at her, bewildered. “Bambi? What are you talking about?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Q shaking his head.

“You're Prince Quentin, aren't you?”

 _No._ But – Q. Quentin.

Eliot feels like an idiot.

“Yeah,” the boy says, ducking his head. “Fuck. Yeah, I am.”

“ _What?_ ” Eliot blinks at him, still trying to figure out why – why he let him think –

Margo steals a bit of croissant and smirks at them. “Well, I see you've got a lot to discuss,” she says. “I'll just leave you to it.”

And she sweeps out of the cafe, a hurricane of dark curls and pink wool, uncaring of the destruction she's just left behind. Eliot sighs and stares at the small puddle of liquid left in his coffee mug.

Across from him, Q – Quentin – _Prince fucking Quentin_ – clears his throat. “Um,” he says. “So.”

“Why didn't you tell me who you were?” Eliot asks.

The prince sighs. “I was going to,” he says. “When I saw you again, last night. I had a whole – but you were nice to me. Even though you still thought I was just a royal messenger.” He shrugs. “I don't have a lot of friends. I don't have _any_ that don't work for me.”

Eliot nods. He can understand that. For his part, he's only really had Margo. Fuckbuddies have come and gone, and he's under no illusions that his arrangement with Idri is based on anything but mutually beneficial pleasure. He's enjoyed Q – Quentin's – company. “So, do I have to call you _your Highness?_ ” he asks.

“Q actually is my nickname,” he says. “That's what Julia calls me. And Alice.”

Right. Alice. The Countess; the girlfriend. He'd forgotten.

“You can, too,” Quentin says. “I – I like it when you do.”

 _Fucking hell._ “Okay,” Eliot says. “Q.” He gets a relieved smile as his reward, and he realizes that Quentin had been worried what the reveal of his identity might mean. “I do have a question, though. If you're _actually_ the Prince, why the fuck don't you own a coat?”

The prince sighs. “I do,” he says. “It's just – you know. Kind of conspicuous. Royal regalia, and all. So I don't like to wear it.”

Eliot downs the rest of his coffee and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Finish up,” he instructs, and Q's eyes widen. “I'm taking you shopping.”

* *

Alice pokes through a rack of dresses, frowning slightly to herself.

She'd been plagued all night with thoughts of Margo, and of the show, and of – of herself, frankly. The rose dress she'd seen at the show had been lovely, but as she and Quentin had turned to leave, she'd heard Ess promise the same dress to another woman, so. She's not so sure about it, now.

Quentin had been gone when she woke. She'd found a note on her nightstand, on hotel stationery, in Quentin's own scrawl: _Meeting a friend. Back later. xQ,_ which had been strange for a whole list of reasons. But she had her own things to deal with.

Which is how she's found herself in what her driver promised is an exclusive, upscale boutique, the kind of place wealthy, prominent New Yorkers shop. She'd gotten a few odd looks when she arrived, but for the most part, she's been left to her own devices with only the occasional glance in her direction.

Maybe she should have brought Julia, she thinks, as she stares at a shimmery, backless silver dress, designed to cling to her body. She's definitely in over her head here.

As if on cue, a tinny bell sound announces the arrival of a new customer, quickly followed by loud chattering. Alice stands on her toes to peek over the rack of dresses. A group of women she thinks she remembers from last night's show have arrived, kicking snow from their shoes. One rushes over to look at a mannequin in a gold halter dress, and then –

And then she sees _her._ Margo. Brown curls and a dark pink coat, standing right in the middle of the group. Her breath stops.

 _Fuck_.

She is so, _so_ screwed.

“Alice?”

She swears to herself and ducks back behind the rack, but it's too late. Margo abandons her group to rush to her side. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her skirt and tries to look – less out of place than she feels.

“I thought it was you!” Margo says, grinning. She looks different here, in the bright lighting of the boutique, than she did in the dim club, but no less stunning. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Is that a problem?” Alice snaps, then shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” Margo says. Sighs. “I'm the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn't have said... what I did. Last night.”

Alice nods. “Okay,” she says. “For the record, though. You weren't wrong.” She gestures at the rack of dresses in front of her. “I don't really know what I'm doing.”

“Well, first, these are all _totally_ wrong,” Margo says, and grins. “Come on. Join us. You look like you could use some _girl time,_ and my – ah – _friends_ – will be thrilled to brag about how they're friends with a Countess.”

It's... not quite the reassuring statement Margo probably thinks it is. She doesn't really want to be paraded around, her title used as a fucking commodity, a prize for letting her hang around. But – well. Her only real friend is Quentin, who's off somewhere else in the city.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and nods. “Okay,” she says. Margo grins and grabs at her arm.

“Wonderful! Come on. I'm sure you've met most of them already, but they won't mind a re-introduction.' She drags Alice out from behind the rack and shoves her towards the group of women as she rattles off names and relationships. Alice does her best to listen, but almost all of it goes completely over her head.

“Don't worry, Countess,” whispers a young woman in jeans and a red sweater that shows her belly button, as she sidles up next to Alice. “I can barely remember these bitches' names half the time.” Alice offers her an awkward smile, and then, at Margo's insistence, follows the group up a set of gold and glass stairs to the second floor.

They're greeted by a white, silver-haired man in a gray and pink plaid suit, who shows them to a seating area of white couches and starts pouring champagne into flutes. “So, Ms. Hanson,” he says. “What brings your little entourage in today?”

Margo ducks her head as she accepts a drink, and passes it on to Alice. “This is Countess Alice Quinn,” she says. “She and the Crown Prince of Fillory are hosting a gala at Loria on New Year's Eve.”

The man looks a little startled. “Fillory, huh,” he says, a faraway look in his eye. “That's – Well.”

“She will need to be dressed as well,” Margo says. “But I want her to go last.”

“Very well,” the man says, and Margo grabs at Alice's wrist and pulls her down onto the couch. Their shoulders bounce against each other as they fall.

“What are you doing?” Alice whispers.

Margo smirks at her. “Making sure they don't upstage you, Countess,” she says. “And anyway, I doubt we'll find anything suitable for _you_ here. I want you to watch, and then once I get rid of this crowd, I'll take you somewhere extra special. Sound good?”

Honestly, Alice isn't very sure, but she nods anyway, and takes a swig of champagne. Margo beams at her and claps her hands.

“Okay, Natalie,” she says, waving at a blonde woman with an odd face who's wearing a white sheath dress. “You're up first.”

* *

Quentin squirms in front of the mirror, fussing at the sleeves on the coat. It's black wool, way too large on him, and so bulky he can barely move his arms. He feels ridiculous, and looks even worse.

“Stop that, your Highness,” Eliot says from behind him, and drops his hands on Quentin's shoulders. Quentin makes a face in the mirror. “What do you think of this one?”

“I would have thought my rather _visceral_ reaction would've clued you in,” Quentin says. He knows he sounds bitchy. He hardly cares.

“Brat,” Eliot teases, and curls his fingers through Quentin's hair. Quentin leans into the gesture, shuddering a little; he's always been weak to having his hair touched. Alice has taken advantage of it more times than he can count. “Okay, then. Not this one.”

He helps Quentin out of the coat and drapes it over his arm. “How many more?” Quentin asks.

“Three more, and then we can move on,” Eliot says.

Quentin wills himself to like the next one. “Why do you care, anyway?” he asks.

“What?”

“I mean. Why do you care so much that I have a coat? I have a driver.”

Eliot sighs. “Well, I mean, first, it's _winter_ and I don't want to be responsible for _your Highness_ coming down with pneumonia,” he says. “Second – is a little more selfish.”

He helps Quentin into a dark navy blue coat with gold buttons. This one is shorter, coming down to his mid-thigh, and tapers at the waist. Eliot runs his hands down the sleeves, fiddling with the button details there, before finally grinning and spinning him around.

“I think we found a winner,” he says, delighted. “What do you think?”

The coat is warm, but not bulky, and he feels – fine. He's not really sure what he's supposed to feel, but it isn't awful. Eliot is staring down at him with this intense look in his eyes. Quentin has to strain his neck a little to meet his gaze, and he –

He doesn't mind it.

“Okay,” he says. His mouth is dry. “I'll get it. But you have to tell me the second reason.”

“Ah,” Eliot says, grinning sheepishly. “That.”

“Yeah.” Quentin eyes him suspiciously. “Seriously, what is it?”

Eliot picks a wayward thread off the lapel of the coat. “Tell you what,” he says. “Indulge me. I'll tell Idri I'm doing important, gala-related work, and I'll walk you back to your hotel.”

Quentin stares at him. “Walk?” he asks, bewildered. “Why?”

“Because you're in New York,” Eliot says, like that explains everything. “You have to actually _see_ the city, and not just from a car window. And now that I know you won't _freeze to death_...”

“I'm not great with. Crowds,” Quentin says, shivering a little. Eliot pets over his shoulders. “Um. It might not be a good idea.”

“Don't worry. I'll keep you close.”

And well.

Quentin nods. “Okay,” he says, and lets Eliot lead him to the register. He hands over the card Julia had left for him, hoping there's enough American money on it to pay for the coat. It doesn't seem to be a problem; the teenage girl at the counter – who has dark skin and bright blue braids twisted into a knot on the top of her head – just runs it and hands him the receipt. He signs the slip of paper without looking at the number; it's not like it would mean much to him, anyway. He refuses a bag and just slips the coat on over his shoulders, smiling awkwardly at the girl as he rearranges his messenger bag at his hip, and steps aside.

Eliot finds a pair of dark brown leather gloves, and tosses them on the counter once Quentin's done. He pays, and lets the girl wrap them in a shiny black bag with white tissue paper.

“Alright,” Eliot says, pressing a hand to the small of Quentin's back. “Let's go.”

* *

Two glasses of champagne and four dresses later, Natalie finally announces she's satisfied, and polite applause fills the room. She's decided on a sequined violet dress that comes down to her mid-thigh. Margo snorts in Alice's ear.

“Of course she picks a cocktail dress for a formal gala,” she whispers. “Classless. You're lucky you have me.”

Alice hands her glass off to the man in the plaid suit. He refills it while Natalie goes to change back into her – well – _street clothes._ The girl who'd spoken to Alice earlier – in the short red sweater – stands up. “I'm next,” she says, and doesn't wait for a response to wander back.

“I thought you were a personal shopper,” Alice says. “At least, that's what Julia said, when she tried to explain who you are.”

“I'm a stylist,” Margo corrects. “I can't do shit if they insist on shopping for themselves. As this group generally does. I'm here to look pretty and validate their choices.”

For a brief second, Alice wants to agree with the _look pretty_ part of her job description; Margo's shed her coat, which is now draped over the back of the sofa, and she's wearing skintight black jeans and a deep-necked hot pink shirt with a ruffle at her waist. Her necklace is a gold chain that meets just under the dip in her throat, and the ends trail down her sternum into her cleavage. Alice, in her knee-length black skirt and white blouse, feels terribly plain.

“But you would. Help someone. If they asked you to?” she says.

“Of course,” Margo says. She takes a sip from her own champagne flute. Her raspberry lipstick doesn't leave so much as a hint of a smudge on the glass. “For the right person.”

Margo is warm next to her. She settles in to watch another parade of sequins and ruffles, and before she's aware of what's happening, her head – feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds – drops onto Margo's shoulder, and the room swims in front of her.

_In her dreams, they're at the gala. She's wearing the same blue dress she'd worn at the fashion show, and in front of her, Quentin – in his hated formal royal suit – is kneeling. He holds a ring._

_Alice tries to say_ yes _, tries to say_ of course _tries to –_

_Tries to be happy._

_She should be happy._

_But_ he _isn't; she can see it in his face, in the trembling of his mouth and the resignation in his eyes. And she wonders what she looks like – if he sees the same things when he looks at her._

_She doesn't say yes._

_She doesn't say anything at all._

_The party goes on around them, and they're frozen in that spot. She won't say yes, but she can't say no; her duty to her country, to her future King, won't allow it. And so, she can't do anything at all._

_She can see, over Quentin's shoulder, Margo laughing with a pretty blonde in a beaded ivory dress, and when the blonde turns her head, Alice sees her own face._

_Someone touches her shoulder and –_

“ _Alice?”_

She jerks awake.

Margo's looking at her with something between concern and amusement. “I think that's enough champagne for you,” she says, laughing.

“Sorry, I – was just –” She looks around and notices the room is empty. “Where did everyone go?”

“Oh, they all finished up,” she says. “They'll be a tacky glitter rainbow. I told them to head to lunch without us.”

Alice blinks at her. “What? You don't have to – if you want to go catch up with them –”

“If I wanted to do that, I would have,” Margo says. “Trust me, I'm right where I want to be.” She pauses for a second, and then laughs. “Well, I mean, not necessarily in this shop. Come on, get your coat.”

“What – where are we going?” Alice asks.

“We're going to find you something _spectacular,_ something so amazing that prince of yours won't be able to tear his eyes away from you all night.”

Something about that – about the way Margo talks about Quentin – makes her feel a little sick. She puts it down to all the champagne she drank. “Sounds – uh. Good,” she says. Margo jumps to her feet and offers a hand, which Alice takes. Margo's skin is warm under her fingers, and she pulls Alice off the couch with a strength she wouldn't have expected from Margo's petite frame.

“So, there's a boutique about three blocks from here,” Margo says, buttoning up her coat and hooking her black tote over her arm. Alice slips into her own, plain black peacoat.

“What makes it different from this one?”

“Too much to even express,” Margo says, and they make their way back down the glass staircase. She waves goodbye to the salesgirls and holds the door for Alice as they step outside. The sidewalk is dusted with snow, the wind swirling it around in delicate patterns on the concrete.

Margo links their arms together and holds Alice close as they walk down the avenue.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Alice asks.

Margo shrugs. “I heard you have a real tiara,” she says, lightly. “I'm hoping you'll let me wear it.”

Alice stares at her. “A real answer,” she says.

“Honestly?” The light in front of them turns red. They stop at the curb, waiting for the cars to pass through, horns blaring at nothing. “I guess I'm just curious.”

“About what?”

The light is still red, but traffic has stopped, and Margo pulls her across. “I saw a photo of you the day you arrived,” she says. “In the airport? You were tearing the photographer a new one. I was like – this bitch. I _have_ to meet this bitch.”

“You must be pretty disappointed, then, huh?” Alice says.

“No,” Margo says, tightening her grip on Alice's arm. “I know that bitch is in there.”

Alice sighs. “Yeah. Somewhere. I feel like...” She struggles for the words. “Do you know why Prince Quentin and I started dating?”

A bright grin splits across Margo's face. “Oooh, _spill_ ,” she says, clearly delighted. Alice frowns at her.

“When Fillory was getting a new Constitution, he championed a particular draft of the parliamentary system,” she says. “That version passed, and afterwards, I told him it was weak and short sighted and left too many powers with the monarch.”

Margo laughs. “I bet he loved that.”

“He did, actually,” Alice says, smiling to herself as she remembers how forcefully she'd argued, how he'd held his ground but hadn't dismissed her, how his eyes lit up when they argued and how she'd felt – _seen_. “A day later, he asked me to tea, and... well, we've been together ever since. Two years, almost.”

“That's the dream, though,” Margo says. “A pretty boy who respects your opinions and likes when you challenge him?”

Alice shrugs. “I guess so. I mean, that part is nice. I just feel like... we have two modes, you know? Either we're in _sovereign mode_ , and we're fighting, or we're in _couple mode,_ and I'm constantly worrying about how everyone sees me. He's still the Crown Prince; he's going to be _King._ Which I'm pretty sure he can't handle.”

Margo stops them in front of a shop with a gold and black awning. “What do you want?” she asks.

“What?”

“If you could have anything. If you could _be_ anything. What would it be?”

Alice laughs. “Well, there's the problem, right?” she says. “It's not just that he _needs_ me. I _want_ to be Queen. Even he doesn't –” She stops. “I mean, _no one_ knows how smart I really am.”

Margo opens the door to the shop. “Well, I don't doubt that,” she says. “We're women. Being underestimated kind of comes with the territory.”

“Yeah,” Alice says, chewing on her lip, and follows Margo inside.

* *

Eliot shoots off another text to Penny, confirming his background check of Kady's staff, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Next to him, Quentin knocks his shoulder against Eliot's arm.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“Planning your gala for you?” Eliot responds. “Not even close. But, yes, _your Highness,_ I will pay attention to you now.”

He grumbles, his brow furrowing adorably, and shoves his bare hands into his pockets. “You know, that's extremely disrespectful.”

“Oh?” Eliot teases, wrapping an arm around Q's shoulders. “You gonna have me locked in your dungeon? Because I'm not opposed to that idea.”

Q kind of splutters at that, but he doesn't deny that he _has_ a dungeon, so. Eliot steers them out of the way of a group of middle-aged ladies whose arms are laden with post-Christmas shopping. They take up almost the entire sidewalk, and Eliot has to press himself and Q against a store window to let them by.

“Oh,” he hears the prince gasp, and he turns to see what Quentin's looking at. It's a bookstore – a tiny independent outfit, with a sign boasting a collection of rare books – and Q's entire face has lit up, his dimples showing as he smiles up at Eliot.

“Yeah,” Eliot says. He doesn't give a single solitary fuck about books; thinks there are many more interesting things to show Quentin in New York. But if this is what Q wants to do, well. He's not going to say no.

Quentin wanders through the shelves, trailing his fingers over the spines of the books, and finally comes to a stop. He rubs his thumb over the label on the shelf, and Eliot leans over his shoulder to read the handwritten sticker: _LGBT Fantasy._

“So much of fantasy is obsessed with kings and queens and stuff like that,” Quentin says, quietly. “I'm – you know, I live in an actual castle. But I like the quests. I like the adventurers. In a way... coming here is kind of like that.”

Eliot sighs. “I know what you mean,” he says. “Not to get into it,” at least, not now, “but I didn't grow up here. Coming to New York was... it was definitely an adventure.”

Quentin smiles up at him. “Were you running away?”

“I like boys,” Eliot says. “My dad... well, let's just say he wasn't okay with that.”

“I'm sorry,” Q says. He touches the _LGBT_ part of the label again. “Me, too. I mean. It's not... despite some attempts from outsiders, it's pretty well accepted back home for. Well, for most people.” Eliot hears the _but not for me_ in his voice. “I'm lucky, because I can still marry a woman and it's not really a lie. So I don't think about it much. But...” He shrugs.

“You still have to deny part of yourself,” Eliot says, quietly, and Quentin nods.

Q picks out five books and heads to the counter. The guy at the counter – tall, ginger, wearing a fucking tank top in the middle of winter – grins at his choices and suggests another book, something they're spotlighting that month. The cover is pink and has an illustration of two men leaning against the block letters of the title. Quentin's mouth twists as he reads the back, his expression almost pained, but he nods and adds the book to the pile.

“Do you want to walk through the park?” Eliot asks, as they leave. They're right across from it; it feels like the thick brown line of tree trunks and bare, spindly branches are calling to him. “There's a little restaurant by the lake. We can watch the rowboats.”

Quentin nods. Smiles. “I'd like that,” he says, and Eliot offers his hand. He's not really sure what he expects Quentin to do, but it isn't to lace their fingers together. His palm is warm, and soft, and Eliot feels a lump in his throat as he realizes what he's doing.

This is a seduction, Eliot realizes. He's been trying to _seduce_ the prince.

And, by the looks of it, it's working.

* *

Alice puts her foot down after Margo's attempt to drag her to a _third_ store. She's never really liked shopping, and the whole thing is starting to get on her nerves. She'd hoped that coming to New York would mean she'd get to see _more_ than just the insides of stores.

To her credit, Margo drops the matter entirely and even apologizes, which leaves Alice no choice but to forgive her. They hail what Margo calls a pedicab – a two-person rickshaw driven by a young man on a bicycle – who takes them a few blocks south and then through the park. They're pressed close together in the cab, jostling against each other as the wheels hit cracks in the pavement, and Alice peers out the clear plastic window. The snow is falling a little faster now, gathering on the grass and the branches of the trees. It's so quiet; the only sound is Margo's breathing, echoing in the tiny space.

“You went to Columbia, didn't you,” she says. “I may have read a bio of you.”

Alice nods. “I did,” she says. “I was, um. Studying a lot, though. So I didn't get to do much.”

“Is there anything you didn't get to do that you wish you did?” she asks.

Well. “Yes,” Alice says, slowly. “You'll think it's dumb, though.”

“No, I won't,” Margo says, and it's such a blatant lie that she doesn't even wait for Alice to call it out before she amends, “Well, maybe. But that doesn't mean I don't want to do it.”

“My roommate at Columbia grew up in Brooklyn,” Alice says. “She talked all the time about how her family would go to Coney Island. I kept meaning to go, but... I never did. Have you –”

Margo grins. “I haven't,” she says. “All right. Tomorrow, I'll take you to Coney Island.”

“And then I'll let you go back to finding me a dress,” Alice promises.

The pedicab comes to a stop at the far edge of the park. Margo gets out, and pays the bicyclist in cash (for which Alice feels a sharp pang of guilt).

“There's a great little sandwich shop nearby,” Margo says. “Lunch?”

“On me,” Alice says. “Since you paid for the –” she gestures at the cab. The cyclist is attempting to solicit a pair of Asian women with cameras around their necks.

“Well, I'm not going to turn down a free meal,” Margo says, and leads her across the street.

* *

In spite of the weather, there are at least a dozen boats out on the lake.

They eat inside, although the patio is apparently open, and watch the boats from the window. The menu is – well, Quentin has no idea what to make of most of it, and he lets Eliot order for him. Which, he realizes, when Eliot orders _octopus_ for the appetizer, might have been a mistake.

Despite Quentin's misgivings, though, Eliot ends up ordering what seems like a normal enough chicken dish for him, and then spends ten minutes discussing wine with an increasingly confused young waitress before finally settling on a bottle of white, to go with Quentin's chicken and his own fish.

He has a distinct feeling that Eliot means to impress him, and, well. It's certainly working. Though he _also_ has a feeling that being _impressed by Eliot_ isn't necessarily a good thing, which.

He ignores the feeling and tries to just... enjoy the afternoon.

The snow has started to fall a little harder, blanketing the outdoor terrace and dusting the tiny, rowing figures in white. It's beautiful, and _peaceful_ , the first time he's felt that since arriving in New York. Eliot reaches out and touches his wrist.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He smiles at Eliot. “I'm just. Really glad I met you.”

Eliot looks pained, like he wants to say something – maybe remind him _(again)_ of what a dick he was when they first met – but he just takes a large swallow of wine and says, “I'm glad,” while clearly trying not to choke on the liquid.

The octopus arrives shortly, and Quentin is surprised to find he likes it. He'd expected it to be chewy – and it is – but the garnishes offset the mildly unpleasant texture, and he has to admit that, _fine,_ Eliot might have chosen the dish on its own merits, and not just to fuck with Quentin.

On the other hand, the chicken is _perfect,_ and Quentin might actually _moan_ when he tries it. It also comes with mushrooms, complementing the seasoning of the chicken, and for a moment, Quentin almost forgets all about Eliot sitting across from him until he hears the clink of glass.

He looks up to see Eliot, obviously a little distressed, pouring himself another glass of wine. He pauses when he's done and then refills Q's glass as well.

“Are you okay?” Quentin asks.

“Just fine,” Eliot says. “I take it you like the chicken?”

“It's incredible,” Quentin sighs, spearing another mushroom. “Thank you, Eliot.”

“My pleasure, your Highness,” Eliot says, and this time, he doesn't sound like he's joking.

* *

After lunch, Eliot leads Quentin back through the park. They go slowly, Quentin insisting on reading each little plaque along the trail and sampling food from a dozen different carts. Eliot, gamely, takes the bites Quentin offers, smiling indulgently as he tries hot dogs and falafel and churros for the first time.

By the time they reach the edge of the park, the sun has set behind them. Quentin's hotel is right there; his pretty, aristocratic girlfriend probably waiting for him.

Eliot doesn't, quite, want to let Quentin go yet, so he tugs him over to a bench and sits him down.

Hands him the bag he's been carrying around all day.

“These – um. I got these for you,” he says. “I'm sure your hands have been cold all day, and I feel like an idiot for not giving them to you before, but I...” He trails off, feeling horribly stupid. “I was just.”

“No,” Quentin says, smiling at him. “I'm – I'm touched. Really.” He reaches into the bag and pulls the gloves on and Eliot can tell they're a perfect fit. Quentin's smile is – luminescent, in the streetlights.

“Thank you,” Quentin says softly. There's a pretzel cart a little to their left, and if Eliot weren't feeling so nearly sick from their culinary tour of Central Park, he'd buy them each one. “For the gloves, but also, just. For today.” Quentin's hair is falling over his face and he's staring at his hands, folded in his lap. Eliot struggles not to reach out and slide his black suede gloves over Quentin's new brown leather ones, and take his hands in his own. “It's so much different here than back home.”

It strikes Eliot, then, that Quentin's never really... talked, about his home. “Tell me about it?” he asks.

Quentin takes a shuddering breath and for a moment, Eliot thinks he'll deny him. It wouldn't surprise him, honestly. He'd probably do the same, if Q were asking him where he comes from. But, shockingly, he nods, and says, “it's nice. Beautiful. Fillory is always so _fucking_ beautiful.”

The way he says the name of his country – it's not unlike the way Eliot spits _Indiana_. “Fillory. I've never heard you say that before.”

“Yeah, well.” Quentin shoves his hair out of his face and, in the bright streetlight, Eliot can see the deep furrows in his brow. “I don't – like to say it. Which I know is ridiculous, because I'm supposed to become its _King,_ but.” He sighs. “Have you ever heard of Christopher Plover?”

Eliot bites his lip. It – it's familiar. He feels like he's heard it before, like he _should_ know it. But he's drawing a blank, so he says, “I don't think so,” and it jars a bitter laugh out of Quentin.

“Right. No reason you should've. So back in the – thirties, I think, early thirties – there's this British man and he goes on this _expedition_ because he's heard about soldiers during the Great War finding this tiny, magical country that's had very little contact with outsiders. And he finds Fillory. And – we welcome him, you know, we told him our stories, and shared our food, and my great grandfather even let him stay in the palace as an honored guest.”

Eliot frowns. He has an awful feeling he knows where this is going. Carefully, unsure if it will be welcomed, he slides closer to Quentin and touches his wrist, skin slightly exposed between the sleeve of his coat and the cuff of his glove. Quentin looks at him, startled, but slowly unfolds his hands and lets Eliot lace their fingers together.

“So after awhile he goes back to England,” Quentin continues. Still quiet. “And then, in the forties, he – meets these children. And he tells them about Fillory. And these children make up their own stories about it, and he puts these stories in a series of books. About a magical land with talking animals.”

“I'm assuming there aren't actually talking animals where you come from,” Eliot says. He's teasing, hoping it'll ease some of the tension in Quentin's shoulders, in his fingers, but it doesn't.

“Just legends. Our legends. He butchered them. But I didn't know that until – not until later. I was.” He frowns. “After the books came out, our country saw a massive influx in missionaries. Lots of different kinds, but mostly Mormons. They did a lot of damage.”

He twists his hands in his lap. “They didn't _quite_ succeed in taking our gods away from us, but they came close. It was bad, for awhile, enough that my grandfather had to establish a special branch of our military to patrol our borders and keep the foreign missionaries and – other colonizers out. We got a reputation as bloodthirsty isolationists, which – Now, it's not great, since we're trying to join the rest of the world, but back then it was all we could do.”

“I'm sorry,” Eliot says. “I can't imagine how much you must have hated those books.”

“That's the thing,” Q says, bitterly. “I didn't. I _loved_ them. My dad got me the books and Julia and I read them and would – pretend we lived in that Fillory. For a long time I thought we _did_ live in that Fillory. Or – I don't know.” He fidgets a little, shuffles closer to Eliot, and Eliot tries not to like the feeling of their shoulders so close, tries not to lean more so that they're touching all down the length of their arms. “My brain breaks, sometimes. The books saved me when nothing else could. But I didn't really leave the palace until I was almost an adult, and then. I learned the truth.”

He's clenching Eliot's hand so hard his joints are aching, but he doesn't complain. The look on Quentin's face hurts ten times worse than the pain in his fingers. He wants to – he wants to stop him, but he _can't,_ and Q pushes on.

“He was hurting one of the boys. Martin Chatwin. He was –” Q winces, and Eliot realizes how hard he's gripping back, because fuck, _fuck,_ he remembers now, the English children's book author who – “anyway, the evidence came out long after both of them were dead. So it didn't matter.”

“It matters,” Eliot says. “I – I know who he is, now. I remember. What he did – it's a fucking travesty he wasn't punished on Earth, but at least it's not hidden now. At least people know.”

“And meanwhile my country, and my _love_ for my country, the country I'm supposed to _rule,_ is – it's so tainted in my head by this imperialist pedophile and his _drivel_ that I can't even say my country's _name_ without feeling sick.” Q shudders. “Fuck. I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Eliot says, bewildered.

“For all of – _that_. For being such a mess. I can't – I don't know why Alice is –” He shakes his head. “She wants to be Queen. And to get that, she's stuck taking care of me.”

Eliot shakes his head, and, throwing caution to the wind, drops Quentin's hand so he can wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in close. “For the record,” he says, “I asked you. And there's nothing wrong with needing help, sometimes.”

They sit like that for awhile, in silence, while the tension slowly drains from Quentin's body. He's not – he's not crying, Eliot doesn't think, but his breathing is a little sharp, a little strained.

“I grew up in Indiana,” Eliot says, and feels Quentin twitch against him. “On a farm. It was. I came out here and remade myself. I never – only Margo knows. No one else. Not even Idri.”

Quentin pulls away from him and gives him a questioning look. “Why are you –“

“My parents and my brothers were homophobic assholes,” Eliot says quickly. “And yeah, my trauma's not your trauma, but.” He fumbles for the words. “I guess I'm trying to say that you are not alone, here.”

Q gives him a tiny smile, a slight curve of his bowed lips, but even more than that is how his skin has smoothed out, how his eyes are clear, and Eliot –

It hits him all at once, _fuck,_ and then just as quickly, it dissipates, leaving Eliot alone with the realization that this isn't just about wanting to get into the cute prince's pants, have a royal fling and _awaken_ something in the boy before he has to fly back to his castle. And maybe it's _never_ been about that.

“Eliot?” Quentin asks, concern in his soft voice.

“Nothing,” Eliot says, shoving his crisis down as deep as it will go. “Nothing at all. Now, tell me, because I've been _dying_ to know. Do you really have a dungeon?”

Quentin actually laughs. “I. Yes, I have a dungeon.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Julia knocks on Alice and Quentin's suite to find Quentin already dressed and Alice in her pajamas, sipping coffee out of a mug.

“Julia!” Quentin calls her over. “Alice had a question for you.”

“No, I didn't.” Alice says, sharply. “Stop it.”

Julia stares at them both. “Um. Okay,” she says, while Q continues to stare meaningfully at Alice.

Finally, the countess sighs. “Fine,” she says, and spins to face Julia. “Do you have a pair of jeans I could borrow?”

That – is not what Julia was expecting.

“Alice made a _friend_ ,” Quentin says. “They're going – somewhere? She needs jeans.”

“I'll see if Fen has a spare,” Julia says, and very deliberately does not tell either of them how weird they're acting. “Q, I'm going down to Loria to check on the preparations. Do you want to come with me?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, Jules. I – uh – have plans, too.”

Which is even _more_ fucking bizarre, but something tells her that her commentary wouldn't be welcome right now.

“Okay, well. I'll just – go check with Fen about the – yeah,” she trails off, and leaves them to it.

She thinks she should be more annoyed with Quentin's apparent abandonment of the gala he's been so obsessed with, but also, she's not _remotely_ surprised.

That's what she's here for, anyway.

Fen's not in her room, but she _is_ in Josh's room, bleary-eyed and very obviously hung over.

“Hey, Julia,” she says. “What's up?”

“Ambassador,” she says. “Lady Alice wants a pair of jeans. Could you check if you have a spare?”

“Yeah, let me just – find my room key. Hang on.”

The door closes behind her. A few minutes later, she returns, waving the card.

“Got it. Sorry about the – I was meeting with some of my new colleagues last night,” she says, leading Julia into her hotel room. “They _really_ know how to party.”

“Sure,” Julia says.

“Anyway.” She digs through her suitcase and finds a clean pair of high-waisted blue jeans. “What does the Countess want them for, anyway?”

Julia shrugs. “Unclear,” she says, and leaves her to it.

After dropping the jeans off – Quentin has already departed to do whatever he was going to do – she orders an Uber to take her down to Loria. Seeing as she's, apparently, the only _responsible_ person around here.

The Uber driver is blasting rap music in what she thinks might be Arabic, but he drives carefully and drops her right outside Loria, so she tips the higher amount and rates five stars before climbing out of the car. The club is unlocked, unsurprisingly, but she's a little surprised by Penny immediately appearing out of the staff corridor to greet her.

“Good morning,” he says. “I have doughnuts and coffee in my office, if you want.”

Julia stares at him. “Did you – get me _breakfast_?”

“No, _we_ got you breakfast,” Kady says, from behind him. “He just wants all the credit for himself.”

“Either way,” Julia says, fighting back a smile. “Yes, I'd love coffee and a doughnut. Thank you. _Both_.”

“You're welcome,” Penny says.

“I got you something else,” Kady cuts in. “The wait staff is all booked for the gala.”

Penny turns to look at her. “Oh, _now_ who's taking all the credit? I did their background checks.”

“Okay,” Julia says, looking between them. “Should we, uh. Go to your office, then?”

“I also want to go over featured cocktails with you,” Kady says, as Penny leads them both back to his office. “If there's anything the Prince and Countess particularly enjoy, it would be a nice touch to have them as a special. Of course, we can have anything available at the bar, but you can give your guests the opportunity to try the drinks _enjoyed by royalty_.” She says the last with a dramatic accent and a sarcastic flail of her hand.

Julia snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “I'll have to check with them. Prince Quentin typically drinks whatever wine is placed in front of him by the royal sommalier, and I've seen Lady Alice drink everything from straight scotch to daiquiris.”

“No rush,” Kady says, and Julia glances over her shoulder to smile at her. Kady doesn't – really smile, that she's seen, but she does smirk, which Julia realizes she likes. A lot.

Penny hands her a cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut at the door to his office, and Julia shakes her head. Work, she reminds herself.

She's here to work.

* *

“Are you ready?” Eliot says, and Quentin can't help grinning at him.

“Where are we going today?” he asks. “Last night, it sounded like – like you had something spectacular planned.”

Eliot laughs. “Well, the first part, not so much,” he says. “But it's important, so.”

That's when Quentin realizes that Eliot doesn't have Idri's driver with him. “Do you want me to get our car?” he asks. “I could –”

“Actually,” Eliot says. “I thought we could take the subway. I'm assuming you've never done that before.”

Quentin stares at him. “Well. No. But – _why_?”

“Because you're in New York,” Eliot says. “And I'll be with you the whole time, okay?”

Knowing it's almost certainly a mistake, Quentin nods anyway, and is rewarded with another of Eliot's wide, delighted smiles. “Great! I promised Idri I'd bring you by Loria later to sign off on some details for the gala, but we have some time this morning. There's something – after what you said at the bookstore yesterday, there's something I want you to see.”

Quentin can't decide if that sounds ominous or not, but – well, he trusts Eliot. So he nods and lets Eliot take his hand and lead him towards the subway station.

They go down a flight of stairs leading underneath the city. Eliot walks him through buying a yellow MetroCard, and then shows him how to swipe it and push through the turnstile, and then they're in a bright, heated tunnel. Eliot tugs him along to the platform marked by an orange circle with a black 'F' inside, and they wait.

Quentin startles at the arrival of the train, _whooshing_ past so close to the travelers in front of them. Eliot squeezes his hand, and when the doors to the train open, he shoves past everyone to secure two seats.

Most of the other passengers have little plastic buds in their ears, some with cords and some without, or headphones with the band around their necks. They stare at their phones, and don't talk to anyone, which Quentin can't help but find a little disconcerting. At each stop, some of them get off, and other people get on, and they, too, stare at their phones.

He's so engrossed in watching the passengers that he almost forgets Eliot is next to him – it isn't until Eliot tugs his hand and says, “This is our stop,” as the train arrives at the next station that he realizes he hasn't said a word since they got on the train.

The station they arrive at is bigger than the one they left, and Eliot leads him through the hallways to the stairs and up into the sunlight.

“The snow's almost gone,” Quentin observes. “I saw it last night, from the hotel room, after Alice and I had dinner. I didn't think it would melt this fast.”

“City heat,” Eliot says. “And it's warming up, today. The snow'll be gone by this afternoon.”

Quentin, oddly, feels disappointed about the prospect, as they walk past another park. It's strange, he thinks; he hadn't expected to see so many parks in the city.

“This is Greenwich Village,” Eliot explains, as they walk. The buildings aren't so tall here; they mostly seem to be apartments, and the streets aren't quite as crowded. He thinks, maybe, if he comes back to New York, he'd like to stay here.

Finally, they stop in front of a small door, with colorful flags on the sill of the second-story window, and Eliot touches his shoulder. “Read the plaque,” he says, quietly, and Quentin does:

 _The Stonewall Inn,_ he reads, and then keeps reading.

“I used to come down here every weekend when I first moved to New York,” Eliot says, quietly. “I liked remembering our history. And I liked seeing all the flags, out here in the open,” and Quentin understands. This, here, is a piece of Eliot's soul.

“Thank you,” he says, softly. “For bringing me here.”

“I know things are different for you, but. You shouldn't be afraid of this part of you.”

Quentin wants to argue that he's not afraid, that that's never been the problem but – hasn't it been? He wants Eliot to be wrong, but he's not sure he is. Regardless – he has a duty.

Although, right now, standing in front of this place where people like him fought to get to be who they were, looking up into Eliot's hazel eyes, he can't quite remember what that duty is.

“Brunch?” Eliot asks, breaking the moment, and Quentin nods.

He leads them to a cute, well-lit French place. Quentin orders a french toast plate, and Eliot orders an Eggs Benedict, and then he adds a pastry basket, which sends a warm feeling shuddering through Quentin's chest.

“Do you think Idri would mind if I just had Julia handle the – whatever he needs me for?” Quentin asks, as he picks at a croissant. Eliot eyes him.

“Probably not,” he says. “But wouldn't she get annoyed that you're not actually _doing_ anything?”

Quentin shrugs. “That's not my fault. _You're_ the one who's distracting me.”

“Oh?” Eliot laughs.

“Not that – not that I'm upset about that, or anything,” Quentin says, quickly. “I've – I really like. Being distracted. And honestly, this gala is more Julia's baby than mine. I don't –” He looks down at his mutilated pastry. “I don't really care. About the gala. I just – I care about the hospital.”

Their entrees arrive. Quentin murmurs a soft 'thank you' to the waiter, a handsome young man with brown skin and black curls and wire-rimmed glasses. Eliot doesn't say a thing, just stares at Quentin, scrutinizing him.

He squirms in his chair. “Um. What?”

“The hospital,” Eliot says. “It's not just about building a hospital, for you, is it? There's something else. Some reason... this is personal for you, isn't it?”

Quentin wants to deny it. Wants to tell Eliot it's just a hospital. But – well, he's pretty sure Alice and Julia haven't bought it, and there's no reason to expect Eliot to, either. But – he _can't_. “You aren't wrong,” he says, carefully. “But – I can't talk about it. Not right now.”

“Hey,” Eliot says, reaching across the table and wrapping Quentin's hand in his long, elegant fingers. “It's okay. You don't have to tell me.”

Quentin can't find the words to thank him, but he thinks Eliot understands, all the same.

* *

Margo takes the train up to Alice's hotel and meets her in the lobby. She's wearing blue jeans, which is kind of shocking, because Margo wouldn't have imagined the Countess even _owned_ such things, and an olive green turtleneck under her peacoat.

“We have the car for today,” she says. “Julia got her own ride down to Loria. I thought Quentin would take it, but he's already left, so – I guess he figured something else out.”

“Okay,” Margo says, and then because she can't help herself, “Your legs look amazing, by the way.”

Alice blushes bright fucking red, so Margo counts it as a win. “Thanks,” she says. “I don't usually – well, I had to borrow these. From our U.N. Ambassador.”

And isn't that just a hell of a sentence, Margo thinks.

The car comes around and Margo holds the door open for the countess, who gives her a pleased little smile. The driver gives them an odd look when Margo directs him to Coney Island, but doesn't question it, and like that, they're off.

Alice is quiet on the ride to Brooklyn, staring out the window at the city. Margo wants to say something, but honestly – she's not often at a loss for words, and the fact that she is right now is something she very much is not enjoying.

Still, it seems like Alice likes just... looking at the city. So she doesn't feel much pressure to change that. Even if she _does_ want to remind Alice that, seriously, the woman sitting right next to her is _much_ hotter than some old buildings.

It wouldn't be a good idea. For, like, a fucking _multitude_ of reasons.

They stop at a deli on the way, because if she's being Alice's tour guide today, she's absolutely _not_ letting her get away without tasting a New York bagel. She lets Alice pick the bagel (onion) but insists she gets to order the toppings, which Alice, very reluctantly, agrees to. She looks like she wants to ask what the fuck lox is, but doesn't want to appear completely clueless, so she keeps her mouth shut.

Her expression when she takes the first bite of cream cheese and salmon is – kind of completely fucking hilarious, but after a moment, she nods. “Okay,” the countess says. “You were right.”

Margo takes a bite of her own bagel. “Damn fucking right,” she says.

They take their time at the deli, crammed into a tiny booth and watching 'the locals' (as Alice calls them) ducking in and out of the shop. When they're done, Margo crumples up their trash and tosses it while Alice heads out to the car.

Coney Island is almost deserted, save for a few scattered people walking dogs along the beach and pier. The amusement park is closed, which is a little disappointing – Margo had wanted to drag Alice on the Wonder Wheel, get her in a swinging car and watch her reaction when it moved for the first time. Maybe get a picture, or a video.

Maybe post it on Instagram.

Instead, they walk down the pier together. It's slick from the melting snow, and Margo feels like she can hear the ghosts of drowned tourists whispering over the railings, but Alice's eyes are wide behind her glasses as she stares out over the ocean.

“It's been a long time since I went to a beach,” she says. “I forgot how – _big,_ the ocean is.”

“Yeah,” Margo says, pressing close to her. “I've never really liked it.”

She turns around and looks at her, bewildered. “What? Why?”

Margo shrugs. It's – it's not easy to explain. But she tries anyway. “It makes me feel small,” she says. “Insignificant. It's not a feeling I'm comfortable with.”

Alice hums. “I understand, I think,” she says. “But – that's what I like about it. Everything else in my life feels so big, so – insurmountable. Fate of an entire people, kind of stuff. It's nice to remember that I'm just a person.” She shrugs a little. “I guess sometimes I just need a little perspective.”

“Two sides, huh,” Margo says, and Alice smiles at her.

They walk along the beach, after that, their shoes crunching in the wet sand. There's a lone, metal palm tree, and Margo gets Alice to pose next to it so that she can take a picture.

“Can I share this?” she asks, as Alice studies the photo. Her mouth twists, but she nods. She doesn't have an Instagram, so Margo can't tag her, but she does tag her name and Fillory and the gala and as many beach-related tags as she can think of, including all of the palm tree and island emojis. She shows the finished product to Alice before posting, and laughs at her confusion. “Just like the bagel,” she says. “Trust me. They'll eat you up.”

Alice nods. “Okay,” she says. “I don't really – get all of this. But it'll help the gala?”

“Well, that, and I want to look back on this when you've returned to Fillory with your fiance. The pretty girl, and the metal tree, and the ocean.”

It's maybe a little too much, because now Alice looks like she's going to cry, so Margo takes her hand and pulls her over to a bench. They sit together, so close Margo thinks she can feel Alice's heartbeat through their coats, and watch the waves crash on the beach.

Eventually, Alice asks, “Do you really think Quentin's going to propose?”

Margo laughs. It sounds high and sharp. “Of course,” she says. “The rumor's been floating around the New York gossip pages, which I'm assuming is Miss Wicker's doing. Which she would only do if it were actually happening. So, fair to assume.”

Alice is quiet for a long while after that, and Margo only realizes that she never actually responded when she jumps up and announces, “I want to get a hot dog.”

Which, frankly, is a much easier thing to deal with than the concept of Alice's upcoming engagement, so. They walk down to Nathan's and order hot dogs, and fries, and sodas, from a very bored, very pimply teenager. The hot dogs are fine, Margo thinks, but the _fries_. She could eat them every day, for every meal. Fucking _heaven_ in a little paper sack.

Alice, the absolute fucking _heathen,_ is indifferent to the perfect bits of fried potato, but devours her hot dog like she didn't have an entire bagel just a few hours ago. Oh, well, Margo thinks.

No one's perfect.

* *

After brunch, Eliot takes Quentin through Washington Square Park. The benches, typically full of NYU students pouring over textbooks, are sparsely filled due to the holiday break. Quentin keeps looking at his watch, which is.

Worrying.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Eliot asks, after about the three-dozenth time. “Because if I am –”

“You said I'm expected at Loria later,” Quentin says. “I just – I really have been neglecting the gala. It's important.” He flails a little. “It might be the most important thing I do here.”

Eliot sighs. “Yeah. And we'll get you there, don't worry. But we have time, okay?”

They make their way to the center of the park and Eliot nudges Q around to see the arch. His eyes go wide and his bowed lips part as he stares up at it.

And then, apropos of apparently absolutely nothing, Q says, “My father's coming to New York today. For the gala.”

“Your –” Eliot can't say it. His throat, his mouth, are completely dry.

“My dad. The King. El – are you okay?”

The King. Somehow – unbelievably – he'd forgotten Quentin being a prince meant he had a king for a father, and said king might actually _show up_. “Of course,” Eliot lies, as he silently panics. “Why wouldn't I be? I just – why didn't you mention it sooner?”

Sheepishly, Q runs his fingers through his hair. “I uh. I forgot, I guess,” he says. “That's – also why I have to go to Loria. My dad's going down there once he gets in.”

Eliot sighs. “Do you want to go now?”

Quentin takes some time, considering, as he stares up at the arch. “I think. Yes.” He frowns. “I mean, I _want_ to be here, with you, but.”

“It's okay,” Eliot assures him. “I get it.” He doesn't, at all, of course, but well. Quentin's not going to calm down, otherwise, so.

He takes Quentin's hand and leads him to the perimeter of the park, where he hails a taxi. Quentin looks a little unsure about it, but gamely slides in when Eliot opens the door for him.

“So,” Eliot says, as they head towards Loria. He tries to keep the nerves out of his voice, but his fingers keep twisting over and over themselves. “What's your dad like?”

Quentin gives him a soft, sad little smile. “He's great. Um. My mom bailed on us when I was young, you know? She wanted to travel the world. So it was just him and me, after that.”

Eliot's not sure how to respond. His dad – well, he doesn't much like thinking about him. And Bambi has _daddy issues_ of her own (and she wouldn't hesitate to murder him if she found out he so much as _thought_ that particular phrase). His experience with decent fathers is –

Well, it's nonexistent. And calling older men _daddy_ in bed didn't count, he thinks, as the car comes to a stop and he and Quentin climb the stairs to Loria's entrance.

Quentin calls for Julia as soon as the door opens and is immediately whisked away by a brunette in a tailored black pantsuit. Penny appears a second later and leans against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and smirking.

“What?” Eliot demands.

“Nothing, man,” Penny says. “So you were out with the prince?”

Fucking Penny. Of all the irritating assholes he has to deal with at Loria on a daily basis, _Penny_ is definitely the _worst._ “Why do you care?”

“I don't, obviously.” Penny shrugs. “Do what you want. But I like this job, so if your dick fucks it up for me –”

“Seriously. I have no idea what you're talking about.” Eliot clenches his fist at his side. “So fuck off and mind your own business.”

“Whatever,” Penny says, and disappears back down the hall to his office.

Eliot sighs.

He needs a fucking drink, he thinks, as he stalks irritably toward the bar. Sliding behind it, grabbing bottles from the shelf and feeling the warm rocks glasses against his fingers, before he fills it with ice, calms the rage before even a drop of alcohol touches his tongue. Which is good; he can focus on his artistry, rather than just downing shots of whatever's closest.

Without really thinking about it, he starts mixing the drink he'd made Quentin the night of Ess's fashion show. Lemon isn't generally his favorite, but now that he's started, he keeps thinking of the face Quentin had made when he tasted it, and the sensory memory is too strong to resist.

He's halfway through his drink when Quentin shows up at his elbow. “Hey,” he says, wide eyed and a little out of breath. “Um. Can I talk to you?”

Eliot stares at him. “Yeah – uh. Yeah. Sure,” he says, and Quentin grabs his arm and drags him out from behind the bar and, for some reason, up the stairs.

“Um, so, my dad's flight landed. A while ago,” Quentin says. “So – once he gets here, I'm going to remember all of my duty, and I'm going to. I won't be able to.”

“Q, what are you –” Eliot starts, but then Quentin shoves him into the nearest room, and kicks the door shut, and Eliot's back is pressed up against the wall and –

And Quentin's lips are on his, and Eliot forgets everything else.


	7. Chapter 7

They walk along the boardwalk for awhile, looking at the empty stalls and the vacant amusement park, all closed for the season. Alice stops and pets a few dogs, out with their owners for a stroll along the oceanfront, but mostly they just stare out over the waves.

Eventually, though, the cold catches up to them, and Alice realizes she's been shaking for the last ten minutes straight, and she can't quite feel her face anymore, so they return to the car.

“So, don't kill me,” Margo says, “but there's a shop here in Brooklyn I want you to look at.”

Alice sighs. She's not thrilled about spending another afternoon looking at dresses and wondering if she has any hope of _not_ looking like – _like she's just crawled out of a mud shack_ , she thinks, remembering what she told Margo at the show. But. It hadn't been awful, yesterday. Not at first.

She'd liked having all of Margo's attention on her. She hadn't realized, until she was standing in a pink, velvet dressing room with actual gold _candelabras_ on the walls, while Margo adjusted the shoulder straps of a shimmery black gown, that she'd been nearly forgotten since the day she became _The Crown Prince's Beloved._

It was as though she had ceased to exist as a discrete person and became just an extension of the Prince, and she hadn't even realized it until Margo came along and looked at _her._

And – it had been overwhelming. The force of Margo's attention, and the way she _liked_ it. The way she liked this, too: For a moment, suspended together over the frigid, roiling ocean. Walking along the beach. Posing for a picture next to that ridiculous fake tree.

When she tried to remember the last time Quentin had been that attentive towards her – well, she wasn't sure, exactly. He'd never quite neglected her, and he was always thrilled to hear what she thought about matters of state; he'd needed some training in the bedroom, but that had been easy enough, and she was rarely unsatisfied.

Except.

The car pulls up to a tiny boutique tucked between a pizza parlor and a store selling prepaid cell phones.

“Are you sure about this place?” Alice asks. “It's not – I mean, the shops you took me to yesterday were –”

“Bourgeois garbage,” Margo says, waving her hand. “And you hated everything there, didn't you?”

Alice shrugs. “I mean. It wasn't that bad,” she tries, but Margo just stares at her, unimpressed. She sighs. “Okay, I did. I know I'm not good at this kind of thing, and I get the whole... magical transformation thing you want me to do, but. I just want to look like myself. I don't think that's so bad.”

Margo gives her a secretive little smile that Alice isn't sure she trusts. “I got that,” she says. “And you might not believe me, but I do respect it. Which is why we're here.”

Despite the location, the boutique is warm and inviting; the walls are eggshell white and brass fixtures fill the space with light. Racks of dresses, arranged by color, adorn the perimeter of the store, and there's a counter in the back.

A woman stands up from behind the corner and spots them. She is pale, with light blond hair and ice-blue eyes, and she waves.

“Alice, this is Fray,” Margo introduces her. “Fray is... well, it's a long story.”

“We were in the same women's shelter,” Fray says, clearly trying to be helpful. “She helped me get revenge on my mother, and then I crashed with her and Eliot for awhile. Who are you?”

Margo sighs. “Yes, _thank you_ , Fray,” she says. “This is Alice. She wants something whimsical for a royal ball.”

Alice looks sidelong at Margo, but it doesn't seem like she's joking. Fray, on the other hand, looks _delighted_.

“Ooh,” she says, and comes out from behind the corner. She circles Alice, three times, and – she's no stranger to scrutiny, but honestly, this is a bit much. “You're pretty,” Fray announces. “This'll be no problem. Margo, do you want to take her back, and I'll find a few things to start us off?”

Margo takes her arm and leads her off, and Alice leans in close to whisper. _“What is going on?”_ she asks. _“Is this –”_

“Fray is the premier renfaire designer in New York,” Margo says. “Renaissance faire.”

Alice just... stares at her, completely baffled. “She's –”

“Do you trust me?” Margo asks, deadly serious, as she pulls back the dressing room curtain. Honestly – really, honestly – Alice doesn't know. But –

She wants to. So she nods, and goes into the room, and sits down on the little wooden bench, and waits.

* *

Quentin has one hand curled around Eliot's tie, and one hand on his chest, and he can feel his heartbeat thumping, loud and fast, and he thinks his own heart might be beating the same. He'd panicked, a little, as soon as he stood up on his toes and pressed their lips together – because Eliot had frozen, but Quentin couldn't bear to pull away from him.

And then, he didn't need to, because Eliot had curled his hand around Quentin's neck and kissed him back. Is still kissing him, unbelievably, bending down a little so Quentin doesn't have to strain as much (he still has to strain a little – Eliot is _inconveniently_ tall) and gripping his neck tight, so that he can control the kiss. And – he's _definitely_ controlling it, pushing his tongue into Quentin's mouth and coaxing him to press back, to curl against him. It's so fucking _loud,_ too, the slick sound of their mouths, the way Eliot hums, the desperate panting Quentin can't seem to stop; and then Eliot pulls him closer, and Eliot slots his knee in between Quentin's thighs, and –

Quentin's crying out, desperately, into Eliot's mouth when the door opens, and then he's being shoved roughly away, and he can hear his name but it's not Eliot's voice and Eliot doesn't call him _Curly-Q,_ that's –

His father.

In the doorway.

Staring at them.

“Um,” Quentin says. He drags his sleeve over his mouth, as if that will fix anything. “Hi, dad?”

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Eliot gasps. “Your Majesty?”

Ted Coldwater – _King Theodore –_ is smirking at them, and Quentin. Kind of wants to die. He thinks Eliot might be on the other side of that, because he spits out an, “excuse me,” and practically shoves the king aside as he flees.

Quentin presses his hand to his forehead and sighs. “Please don't,” he says.

His dad flips the light on and steps into the room, shutting the door. He goes to sit down at the vanity and, reluctantly, Quentin follows, taking a seat on the couch opposite him.

“So,” the king says, “I hear you're proposing to Lady Alice at the gala.”

Quentin shrugs. “That's the rumor,” he says, trying to keep his panic under control. “I mean – yes, I have a ring.”

“That's good,” he says. “I'm proud of you. She'll be a great Queen.”

“Dad, I –”

“Q.” His father folds his hands in his lap and studies him carefully. “I know you don't like it. I don't, either. But you are going to be King, soon. And I have every confidence you'll be a great one. Do you know why?”

He sighs. “Because I was born to it?”

“No,” Ted says. “Because you love Fillory. And you will always do what is best for her.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and his father smiles and presses a kiss to his head and leaves, and.

How could that possibly be right?

He'll be a good king because he _has_ to be, because he has no choice. But how could – how could he possibly love his country, when he can't bear to so much as _think_ her name?

When, right now, it feels like she's taking _everything_ from him?

He folds in on himself and presses his hands to his forehead and wonders what he was possibly thinking. Feelings are one thing; he's had _feelings_ his entire life, and for the most part, has been able to temper his expectations. But acting on them?

Now that – now that he knows what it's like, having Eliot's mouth on his, he's not sure there's any way he could possibly give it up.

Quentin isn't sure how long he sits there, trembling into his own arms, before he hears the quiet click of the door opening and Julia calling his name. He wants to look up, wants to tell her he's _fine,_ but. He can't move.

The door closes and a moment later, he feels the dip of the couch as Julia sits down next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, softly.

He doesn't. He really, _really_ doesn't. But. She's his best friend, and he loves her, and right now she sounds so worried he can hardly stand it. “I kissed Eliot,” he admits.

Julia doesn't say anything for awhile, but she does run her fingers through his hair. She must realize that he can't get anything else out, because she starts talking, instead. “You know, I've always been kind of grateful I'm not a princess,” she says. “Like, right now, there might be – something. And it'd be impossible if I were in your position.”

Quentin looks up at her. “Really?” he asks, trying his best to be happy for her. He doesn't think he's doing particularly well at it. “That's. That's great.”

“What I mean is... yeah, you have a duty to Fillory. But you also have a duty to yourself. After – after everything – you deserve to be happy. And maybe it's not impossible to have that _and_ fulfill your duty.”

“I don't know,” he says. “I want to believe you're right, but. I don't just have a duty to – to our people. I also have a duty to Alice.”

 _Alice, who he betrayed_.

“Okay,” Julia says. “Just... think about things, okay? And come downstairs; Kady wants to know your and Alice's favorite cocktails so she can feature them at the gala.”

“I don't know about hers,” Quentin admits, and _fuck,_ this is really something he should know – why doesn't he know? “But. I'll come down.”

Julia stands and helps him up, adjusting his clothes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she says, and together, they leave the room.

* *

The first dress Fray brings to the room is white, with red rose embroidery, and is a _no_ pretty much the second Alice sees it. The second, a forest green affair with gold beading, is – well, the look on her face still isn't exactly reassuring; at Margo's insistence, though, she agrees to try it. She kicks Margo out of the room, claiming she doesn't need assistance with the dress, though ends up sticking her head back out of the curtain a couple minutes later and asking for help.

Alice's annoyance and frustration is obvious and, frankly, adorable.

She's holding the dress against her chest when Margo comes in, the back of it open to the small of her back – a row of tiny buttons that Margo admits would be difficult for anyone to handle on their own.

Margo steps behind her and starts working on the buttons, trying her best to keep her fingers from brushing the exposed skin of Alice's back, from tracing the line of her spine. She can't quite keep herself from touching the white silk of Alice's bra, though.

Once she's done, she spins Alice around and lowers her arms from her chest. The dress has a matching square neckline in the front and back, and there's a little gold-ribboned corset detail in the front, which Margo laces slowly as Alice takes tense, deep breaths, her chest moving with each one.

Finally, Margo ties off the ribbon and steps back, folding her hands behind her back so she isn't tempted to _touch._

“So,” she says. “Turn around. What do you think?”

She turns. The velvet is deceptively light, raising a little bit around her legs as she turns, and Margo watches Alice's face in the mirror. She frowns a little when she sees herself. Margo's heart drops.

This was supposed to be her ace in the fucking hole. If Fray's work isn't right – well, Margo's at a loss to find something Alice will like. She'll have to admit failure, which is something she has never, _ever_ done. Not willingly.

But then, Alice smiles, just a little. “I like the neckline,” she says, softly. “And – the material is nice. Warm. The sleeves are good. I'm just – not sure about the color.” She plays with the skirt a bit. “I wonder – the dress we tried yesterday, with the slit? I liked that.”

 _That's_ a surprise. Margo had thought Alice hated that dress, but maybe it was the rest of it she had a problem with. It _had_ been nearly translucent, after all. Not her best guess. “I doubt Fray has any like that, but I'm sure if we find something you like, the alteration is definitely doable,” she says. “I also – I know you hated all the sequins you saw yesterday, but I'd like to try you in something with just a little more bling. Nothing crazy, I promise.”

Alice chews on her lip, and then nods. “Okay,” she says, and Margo winks, over her shoulder, so that she can see in the mirror before ducking back out of the room.

She tracks down Fray, who's picked six more dresses.

“Hey,” she says, dumping the pile on her counter. “Do you think she'll like any of these?”

One of them is a beautiful indigo blue, in the same light velvet material and with the same neckline as the green dress. It doesn't have the front corset detail, but it does have silver, beaded embroidery – tiny birds, she realizes, as she looks closer – along the princess seams of the bodice, which sparkles in the boutique's lighting. The drop-waist skirt doesn't have the slit Alice is looking for, but that is easily fixed, and given it's otherwise plain, Margo thinks it would probably be a necessary improvement. The sleeves are three-quarter, rather than the full-length sleeves of the green dress.

Still. She thinks this is the winner.

“I'll take this one back to her,” Margo says. “Hopefully we won't be needing the others, but Her Ladyship has been _frustratingly_ picky, so.”

“Sure,” Fray says. “I'll just leave the rest here.”

Margo goes back to the dressing room to find Alice, still in the green dress, perched on the dressing-room bench.

'I couldn't get the buttons myself,” she says, blushing. “Help me?”

“Um,” Margo says, awkwardly. “Yeah, sure. Here – stand up.”

Very, _very_ carefully, she undoes the button fastenings, and although she just helped button her up and the sight of her bare back should _not_ be a new phenomenon, her breath still catches in her throat.

Alice doesn't kick her out, this time, when she slides the dress to the floor, just asks Margo to turn around – which she does, carefully moderating her breathing and reminding herself that this, _this,_ is not –

“Okay,” Alice says. “Um. Can you help –”

The indigo dress has a corset backing, which isn't any easier to deal with than the buttons. When Margo pulls the strings taught, Alice shudders and gasps, her eyelashes fluttering behind her glasses and her lips quivering. Margo is tempted to keep tugging it closed, to see how far she can go, to see what other sounds Alice might make –

But she doesn't.

She tightens it just enough to show off Alice's defined waist and hourglass figure, and then she ties it off, and smiles at Alice in the mirror.

“So?” she asks, and miraculously, it sounds almost normal.

“I – wow,” Alice says. “Um. Yeah, I – and Fray can do the slit?”

“Fray can do the slit,” Margo confirms. “I'll make sure of it. It'd be a crime to hide your legs, anyway.”

Alice turns bright red and ducks her head. “Thanks. Um. This is good, then,” she says, and Margo would be discouraged if she were anyone else, but she's spent two days with this girl. This is how she is, when she's overwhelmed.

“Good,” Margo says, grinning. “I'll send Fray in, so she can make marks for your alterations – she might want to shorten the skirt a little, too, you don't want it collecting dustbunnies all night.”

“Oh,” Alice says. “Okay. Hey – um. Thank you,” she says, wrapping a hand around Margo's wrist and looking at her so fucking earnestly that Margo kind of wants to die. She tries to look away, but that just results in staring at Alice's cleavage, which.

When the fuck did they get so close?

She looks up again, intending to just – say _no problem,_ say _you're welcome_ , but Alice's lips are right there, pink and soft, and before Margo can remember why this is a _terrible idea,_ she's kissing the Countess right there in the dressing room.

And then, suddenly, she's not.

“Shit,” Margo says, running a hand through her hair. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“No, I –” Alice's mouth twists, the way it does when she's confused. “It's – okay. We shouldn't. But it's okay. I'll just –” she reaches back and grabs onto the string holding the corset tie together and tugs.

It comes undone in a second, and a second later, Margo is on the other side of the curtain.

“So? Verdict?” Fray asks, appearing at her side.

“What?”

“The dress. She like it?”

 _Oh, right. That. The dress. The fucking dress._ “Yeah,” Margo says. “I think she undid the back already, but she wants a slit in the skirt, if you can do that? The party's on New Year's Eve.”

“I can rush,” Fray says. “Have it ready by tomorrow night, if you want. She – or you – or whoever will need to pick up, but I can get it done no problem.”

“Thanks,” Margo says. “Um. I'm going to – I forgot. There was somewhere I needed to be, so. I'm just. Going to get an Uber back to Manhattan. Her car's still outside, ready to take her back whenever you're done. Let her know?”

Fray shrugs. “Sure,” she says, and then, like a _fucking_ coward, Margo leaves.

* *

Alice gets back the hotel to find Quentin lying on the love seat. He's holding an empty wine glass against his chest, and a half-empty bottle of red is sitting on the coffee table next to him. She sighs and kicks his feet out of the way so she can sit, and grabs at the bottle for herself.

“Wasn't sure when you'd be back,” Quentin says, and reaches back to grab a clean glass off the end table by his head. “Here. If your day was anything like mine...”

She doubts that's possible. “Thanks,” she says, and pours herself a glass. The wine is decent, but not spectacular, and not nearly alcoholic enough for what she needs, but it's convenient.

(The little voice in her head that says _like Q_ needs to shut up.)

“Did your dad get in okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” He rolls to the side a bit so he can sit up, and pours the rest of the bottle into his own glass. “He stopped by Loria this afternoon.”

“That's nice,” Alice says, and Quentin takes a long swallow of wine. “Um. This might be out of – Are you going to ask me to marry you?”

He splutters. Droplets of red wine stain the white carpeting. “What?”

“It's just. I know Julia's been spreading the rumor. Which means I'm assuming she was told to, which means it's true.”

Quentin sighs and puts his glass down. It clatters awkwardly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “That's the plan.”

“Except you don't seem happy about it,” she realizes, and is startled to realize – he's not happy about it. _She's –_ she doesn't know what she is. And she has no idea what that means.

He looks up at her, his brow furrowed. “Well,” he says, a little bitter. “Neither do you.”

“I don't know, Q,” Alice says. “I guess – I've been recalculating.”

That makes him laugh, but it's not a pleasant sound. It's dark and angry and although she knows his anger is only ever directed inward, it still makes her flinch. “Yeah,” he says, and sighs. “Well, let me know what you end up _calculating_. I'm going to bed.”

And with that, he takes his wine glass and stumbles into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and leaving Alice alone with her own glass and the empty bottle and the knowledge that this is _not_ sufficient to get her through her own crisis.

She abandons the wine and calls down to the bar from the room landline.

The bartender sounds sympathetic to – whatever her voice is doing, but she also denies the bar has absinthe, which is unhelpful. She sighs and just asks the bartender to mix something “strong, with bourbon, and like, three of them,” which gets a laugh, and Alice takes a swallow of Q's mediocre wine to deal with the realization that she likes making girls laugh, and also the secondary realization that this is not new information.

The drinks arrive on a silver tray, which she takes into the guest bedroom. Her luggage and Q's luggage are still strewn all over the floor; she strips out of her turtleneck, and her bra, and Fen's jeans, and adds them to the pile as she sips from the first glass.

So much fucking better, she thinks, as it burns her throat.

Then, knowing it's a bad idea but unable to help herself, Alice grabs Quentin's sweatshirt – the one he'd worn on the plane, before they arrived in New York, back when Alice had no idea who Margo was and Quentin acted like he loved her – and pulls it over her head.

She gets through two and a half drinks before she falls asleep, and although she's surrounded by Quentin's scent, the last thing she thinks about before her eyes drop shut is how Margo's lips felt on hers.


	8. Chapter 8

“Death in the Afternoon,” Julia says, dropping her coat on the floor and her head on the bar.

“Um. Good morning?” Kady responds. There's a soft clattering of glass, and then Julia feels Kady's hand on her head and she sighs. “So, was that a request, or...”

“Lady Alice's cocktail.” Julia raises her head just enough to rest her chin on her forearms. “I asked her this morning, but she was angry and probably hungover, so.”

Kady shrugs. “Well, it's a little short notice to get actual absinthe, but there are a few substitutions,” she says. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Julia says. “I don't know. I just feel like – I'm running in circles with the gala, trying to keep everything together while Q – while Prince Quentin and Lady Alice are off doing – I don't know. It's a little exhausting.”

“I know that feel,” Kady says. “Have you ever considered what _you_ want to do?”

“I mean,” Julia says, shrugging. “I like my job. I like – being in charge of – and Q is my best friend, so.”

“Sure, but you don't need them to do that.” Kady turns around and pulls three bottles of clear liquor off the shelf, then digs out an open bottle of sparkling wine under the bar. “And that can't possibly be everything you want out of your life.”

Julia hears the question. The _real_ question. The one Penny hasn't been so circumspect about asking. But right now, she's not sure she can answer, so she doesn't say anything as Kady places three flutes on the bar and begins pouring.

Each glass gets a different liquor before being topped off with sparkling wine.

“Okay,” Kady says. “Try these.”

Julia does, though she can't really tell the difference between them. She ends up picking the third, because it burns a little less than the other two, and Kady nods, satisfied.

“Great. So we've got both cocktails settled,” she says. “The royal chef will have free reign in the kitchen tomorrow; the sous-chefs are scheduled to arrive at one, and the waitstaff will be here at seven, doors open at eight. We're not missing anything?”

“We ditched the sit-down dinner, didn't we?” Julia asks, and Kady nods.

“The waitstaff will circle the party with small plates,” she confirms. “Champagne will be passed out at a quarter to midnight. After the clock strikes, and everyone celebrates, the prince can make his proposal.”

Julia sighs. _Proposal. Right._ “I'm not sure – I don't know. When I went by this morning, it looked like they'd had a fight,” she admits, and then, quickly, “You can't say anything about that, if –”

“Bartender, remember?” Kady says. “I'm a fucking vault.”

 _Right_. Still. After talking with Quentin yesterday, she suspects – despite his insistence that nothing's changed – he's having second thoughts; and particularly after seeing Alice this morning so clearly distressed, it's likely he told her about the kiss.

“If there's no proposal, some of the guests may feel cheated.”

“Fuck 'em.” Kady grabs one of the sample glasses and downs the rest of the cocktail. “It's none of their business.”

Julia smiles at her. “True,” she says. “Thanks, for all of this. Helping with the gala. I know they think I'm a miracle worker, but truth – I couldn't have done _any_ of this without you.”

“Well,” Kady says, taking up glass number two, and raising it in a toast, “it's not like I'm entirely unselfish. I got to spend time with you. And I know Penny feels the same way.”

Which is too close to – things Julia's uncertain about.

“By the way,” Kady continues, after she takes a sip, “Eliot texted me. He's having one of his famous Cottage parties tonight. You want to be mine and Penny's plus one?”

Julia – remembers. The first time she met Penny, she remembers asking about it. “Um. Is that the _Eyes Wide Shut_ thing?” she asks. Kady kind of laughs.

“Is that what Penny said?” she asks, and shakes her head. “Nah, it's not as weird as that. Well, there's some orgies, sometimes. And sometimes people get a little more freaky. But mostly it's pretty chill.”

She feels like she should ask more about what _some orgies, sometimes_ and a _little more freaky_ mean, but honestly, she doesn't care that much. She just needs a fucking break, and she trusts Kady and Penny not to get her into _too_ much trouble, so.

“Sure,” she says.

* *

Eliot sends the cottage party invite to the designated groupchat from the bathroom when he wakes up in a sweat at six a.m., then turns off his phone and goes back to bed.

He'd made a fast exit after Quentin's father – the _fucking king_ – had walked in on them, hailed a taxi, and texted Idri that he wouldn't be over tonight.

Idri's response had been a simple _okay xx_ which, somehow, just made Eliot feel worse. He'd thought about finding – someone else – to occupy his thoughts, but the only thing on his mind was the feel of Quentin's hair under his fingers, and the sweet little sounds he made when Eliot fucked his mouth with his tongue. He'd tried to drink, to get the taste of him out; at some point, Bambi came home as well and she drank, as well, looking just as maudlin as he felt.

He never did ask what was wrong with her.

Idly, as he pulls the covers back over his head, he thinks that maybe he should have.

Five hours later, Eliot wakes again and surrenders to existing in the daylight. Out of deference to Bambi's likely presence in the apartment, he pulls on underwear and drapes a gauzy floral robe over his shoulders.

She's at the table when he walks in, staring into a coffee cup like it's personally offended her.

“Morning,” Eliot says.

“Afternoon,” she responds.

Fair enough. He wanders over to the refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, onion, peppers and mushrooms, and there's a loaf of bread on the counter. He adds a stick of butter to the pile and rummages around for a knife and cutting board.

“Omelette?” he asks.

“Sure,” Margo says, without any enthusiasm.

Eliot's always enjoyed cooking. He likes the meditative nature of slicing vegetables, the sound of butter sizzling on a pan. He likes the _crunch_ of the crust of a fresh loaf of bread when the knife slices through it, and the _click_ the toaster makes when the bread starts to warm.

He tosses the onion, peppers, and mushrooms into the pan first and lets them cook while he beats his eggs. Eliot's always preferred a whisk for this job; it makes the eggs fluffier than using a fork does. Once the onions are slightly brown, he adds the eggs and reduces the heat, occasionally lifting the edges to let the liquid run to the bottom.

Salt and pepper are added once the eggs are nearly done, and he grabs two plates out of the cabinet and butters the toast before adding the cheese to the eggs and folding the omelette.

He cuts it in half with his spatula and plates it, and then serves Bambi first with a flourish.

She looks at the plate, and then at him, and says, “Can you get me a fork?”

He rolls his eyes, but obliges, and carries his own plate to the table to sit opposite her.

“Thanks,” she says.

Eliot sighs. “Okay,” he says. “What's going on with you?”

She startles, a forkful of eggs already in her mouth. “What? Nothing,” she says, around the food. It's kind of gross. She swallows. “You're one to talk, anyway. What was with your maudlin bullshit last night?”

Eliot – really doesn't want to talk about it. But she's going to find out eventually, so. He just gives her the conclusion. “I'm not going to the gala tomorrow,” he says.

He expects her to ask what the fuck he's talking about – he nominally works at Loria, after all – and try to talk him out of it, but she just sighs. “Yeah, me either.”

“Also, I'm having a Cottage party tonight.”

That _does_ get a reaction. “Really?” she asks. “I mean, fuck, lord knows I need it.”

“Good,” Eliot says. “I sent out the text, but you – I definitely want you there.”

Bambi, _his Bambi,_ laughs, and though he's sure whatever's bothering her hasn't just stopped being a problem, it's good to see. “Aw,” she says. “You know I'm here for you, bitch.”

And yes.

He does know.

* *

The morning before the day of the gala, the day he's supposed to _propose,_ Quentin wakes up alone.

It's not a surprise, considering how he'd spoken to Alice the night before, but it still sends a pang through him. He has no idea how to fix it, and worse, he's pretty sure he doesn't want to.

At least, not in a way that keeps their potential engagement alive.

Instead, he fishes the bag from the bookstore out from under his bed and pulls out the one that had been recommended by the cashier. There's something about fiction that has always helped him – figure out certain things, and while he generally dislikes reading about royalty, he thinks that, maybe, it will help.

His situation is different, of course. The boy in the book isn't the heir, and the boy he lo – the boy he wants is also in the public eye.

And he's sure there will be a happy ending. That kind of certainty – it doesn't exist for him. But the parallels –

The parallels are still there.

And so, eyeing the closed bedroom door and deciding he's _not_ leaving the hotel today, he settles in with the book.

* *

For a moment after she wakes, Alice isn't sure where she is.

And then she spots the glasses on the nightstand: two empty, one almost empty. And she remembers.

The last thing she wants to do today is to see Margo, and the second to last thing she wants is to stay in the hotel all day, and so she does neither. Her head is pounding, but she gets herself out of bed, and showers, and dresses, and then she writes out a note for – Quentin, or whoever finds it – and leaves the room.

Her destination isn't far, so she hails a taxi rather than take the car – Quentin can have it, if he wants to go somewhere – and directs it to the Met.

There's something about museums, she thinks, as she climbs the stairs to the entrance. It's the same feeling she gets standing at the edge of the ocean, the same feeling she'd tried to explain to Margo. The reassuring feeling of insignificance.

She wanders through the exhibits, a little unseeing, stopping occasionally when something strange catches her eye. An item out of place, or a discordant expression, or a splash of unexpected color. She looks at paintings of historical events, sometimes the same event as painted by multiple artists, and thinks about everything else that must have happened that day that wasn't important enough to be committed to canvas and remembered for generations.

Her engagement to Quentin would be like that, she thinks. She might be a good Queen, a _great_ one, even, but she'd forever be tied to him as _his Queen._

And well, she thinks, as she stares at a portrait of a king, reads a plaque that doesn't even mention the name of the woman who supposedly ruled at his side, that isn't what she wants.

Quentin adores her, she knows. He respects her. He'll even marry her.

But, she realizes, as she moves on to look at a painting of a pair of lovers, wrapped in an amorous embrace and unaware of the artist painting them. He doesn't love her. And as much as she wishes she did – as much as she wants to keep him – she has to admit she doesn't love him either.

She's just not sure what that means.

* *

The sun has set long before Quentin finishes the book. He hasn't eaten all day, but he doesn't care – his stomach is in knots, he couldn't eat even if he wanted to, and his eyes are red and puffy from crying.

He's honestly not sure the book helped at all, really, but – he thinks he can admit how he feels, now. Whatever he felt for Alice, if it ever was love, he knows now isn't anything of the kind. He still cares for her, of course he does – he couldn't ever _not_ – but. He doesn't love her.

Quentin is, however, pretty sure he loves Eliot, and is equally as sure that he'll regret it if he doesn't give this – _thing_ – between them a shot.

He crawls out of bed and stumbles into the bedroom to wash his eyes and his face. The sight of his hair makes him grimace, and after a somewhat futile attempt to comb it down, he gives up and ties it back in a bun. Then he brushes his teeth and dries his hands and tries to figure out if he should order something from the kitchen for dinner or just –

“Alice? Quentin?” he hears Julia's voice in the sitting room. Sighing, Quentin opens the door and steps out.

She looks at him like – he's not sure. He thinks there's some pity in there, and he realizes he's still in yesterday's clothes, just hopelessly rumpled, and his hair is still a mess even tied back. “Hey, Jules,” he attempts, gamely. His voice is rough from crying, and he's pretty sure she can tell.

“Um. Hey, Q,” she says. “I was just – Margo asked me to get Alice's dress for the gala, since it was ready at the tailor's – I had to go all the way into Brooklyn – anyway. Do you know when she'll be back?”

Quentin shakes his head. “I'll make sure she gets it,” he says.

“Okay,” Julia says. “I'm, uh. Going to a party tonight, at Loria. So. If you need anything else before I go –”

“I'm good, Jules,” he says, and then because she doesn't look convinced, “I promise. I was just going to order from room service, and I guess – I guess I'll need my beauty sleep. For tomorrow. Um. Have fun at your party, though.”

She still, pretty clearly, doesn't believe that he's okay, but she doesn't question him, and soon Quentin is left alone to himself.

Which doesn't last long.

Because, of course, she _didn't_ believe him, and instead of, like, confronting him about that, she sends his _father_ as reinforcement.

Almost as soon as he puts his order into the kitchen, Ted Coldwater knocks on the door and, before saying anything else, admits that, yes, Julia's worried about him, but he is, too.

Which. Quentin can't turn him away. Not because he's the king; because he's his _dad,_ and because –

“I just ordered from downstairs,” he says. “I can have something for you sent up, too, if you want?”

“Whatever you ordered will be fine, thank you,” his dad says, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa while Quentin calls in the extra order.

“So, um,” Quentin says, sitting down and staring at his hands. “I've been doing some thinking, and I – I don't want you to be upset.”

There's a long pause, and before Quentin can gather his nerves, his father beats him to it. “You're not asking Lady Alice to marry you, are you?” he asks.

Quentin shakes his head.

“Is it the boy from yesterday? Eliot?”

Quentin looks up. His father is – he's not mad. He doesn't look upset, either, at least – he kind of looks like he did the last time they had to call a specialist to the palace to keep an eye on him while he slept, because he couldn't be trusted to be alone without hurting himself. “It's not – just him,” he says, carefully. “I think. There might be something. With him. I do – have feelings, I think. For him. But even if I didn't – Alice and I don't love each other. And I know that doesn't matter; I know, regardless, we have a duty, But I don't want to be trapped like that, and I don't want her to be trapped like that.” He sighs. “I think you know that doesn't end well.”

His father is quiet for a long time, after that, but eventually, he nods. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay – what?” Quentin asks, trying to temper the rising hope bubbling in his chest.

“I didn't – I just wanted you to be happy,” Ted says, and Quentin thinks he can see the beginning of a tear in his eye. “I wanted – you're going to be King, soon, and I wanted to make sure you were supported, before. I never wanted you to feel like you were being forced into something you didn't want.”

“But –” Quentin struggles, searching for the words. “I thought – what about the royal legacy?”

Ted laughs and wraps his arm around Quentin's shoulders. “Curly-Q, _you're_ my legacy. And loving a boy doesn't mean you can't still be a father, if you want.”

That's – true enough, he supposes. “You wanted to see my wedding,” he says, weakly. “ _I_ wanted you to see my wedding.”

“I'd rather miss your wedding than attend one that won't make you happy.”

Quentin realizes he's crying, after that, and he feels small, and ridiculous, but his father just holds him close and rubs his back and lets him. Even if Eliot doesn't want – even if he decides that it's too much trouble, his father is right. He just wishes they had more time.

A knock at the door announces the arrival of their dinner, and reluctantly, Quentin pulls away from the embrace. “Um. I'll just – get that,” he says, awkwardly, and his father places a hand on his cheek.

“I'm proud of you, Curly-Q,” he says.


	9. Chapter 9

Eliot lounges on his throne, a drink in one hand and a scepter in the other. Soft music wafts through the smoke-filled air, occasionally interrupted by raucous laughter where Hoberman is holding court.

When Josh first arrived, the ambassador girl on his arm, Margo had grabbed his face and kissed him roughly; Eliot, who knew her technique better than anyone, could tell it wasn't just a hello, wasn't just a power-play. It was an actual _attempt,_ a hope that he would respond. He hadn't, and she had spat something foul at his feet, and gone to lounge on a pile of embroidered pillows at Eliot's side. He had considered, for a moment, going over to Josh and the ambassador to apologize for Margo and offer drinks, but she wouldn't thank him for it and he couldn't move and honestly, he just didn't give that much of a shit.

Bambi seems to be over it, anyway; after licking her wounds and downing half a bottle of sparkling wine from some _lesser_ province of France, she started wandering the room and offering kisses to all the blonde girls. Eliot has his suspicions, why she's particularly fixated on them when he's mostly known her to be nominally bi-curious, but he doesn't ask.

In another, slightly more secluded corner, Kady and Penny have somehow enticed Julia Wicker to lie between them and accept kisses to her lips, and neck, and breasts; her blouse is halfway unbuttoned, now, nearly to her belly button, and Kady is rubbing her nipple through her cherry-red bra, and well.

At least _someone_ from the godforsaken Fillorian delegation is having fun, he thinks, with a sigh.

Occasionally, he's approached by men, mostly ones he's sampled before; he sends all of them away with barely a thought. It occurs to him, vaguely, that he will soon have to go back to his life – he can't spend the rest of his days hung up on a single kiss.

But for now, he thinks he's deserved a little self-indulgent moping.

He turns back to the pile of Kady and Penny and Julia. He is, typically, much more of an exhibitionist than a voyeur, but won't deny he enjoys watching others in their pleasure. Penny has Julia's face tilted towards him and is kissing her, swallowing her moans, while Kady has her hand shoved into Julia's panties and, from the movement of her wrist, appears to be tracing slow circles over her clit.

She makes a tiny, high-pitched noise when she comes, and for a moment, Eliot is consumed with wondering what _Quentin_ sounds like, when he –

Eliot downs the rest of his drink.

The party goes on, in a haze; to Eliot, it's like a film on mute, and he almost regrets deciding to host at the Cottage rather than drink, alone, until passing out.

His phone vibrates against his leg, and, like he's swimming through pudding, he takes it out. There's one text, from Idri. His eyes are too glazed to read it, and his mind is too – _everything,_ to care.

He opens the text and responds:

_I've fallen for another. Thoughts of his face consume me. Remember me fondly. Farewell._

The last thing he recalls, after that, is stealing the rest of Margo's bubbly and drinking straight from the bottle.

* *

Eliot wakes the next morning in his own bed, for which he assumes he has Bambi to thank, because he can't remember a _thing_ about how he got home.

Or, really, much else about the night.

Except for that Julia girl having a threesome in the middle of the room. _That_ is vivid, and amazing, and the fact that Quentin has a friend like her –

And then he remembers, all over again.

He rolls over and grabs at his phone. It's late afternoon – because of course it is – on December 31, and he has one text, from Idri: _Drink some water._ Wondering what prompted that, he unlocks his phone and scrolls up the thread. It isn't long: Idri had just asked if he was planning on coming over after the Cottage party, and Eliot had – well, if they were any sort of exclusive, it probably would have constituted a break-up. They're not, so –

But still. The text makes him wince, when he sees it.

 _A problem for later,_ he decides, and goes to the kitchen to follow Idri's advice.

He's pouring himself a glass from the Brita filter in the fridge when he hears a knock at the door. Confused – he's never spoken to the neighbors and anyone else definitely needs to be buzzed up – he wanders over with his glass and opens it up.

And nearly drops his glass.

“Um,” Eliot says, wrapping his robe around himself and trying to cover his nipples with his arms. “Um – Your Majesty?”

King Theodore of Fillory looks at him, amused. “Eliot,” he says. “I heard you weren't going to the gala tonight.”

“I'm not,” Eliot says. “I don't think it would be a good idea. Your son – however I might feel, he has a duty. He doesn't need me distracting him.”

“You know,” the king says, “we had a talk. Me and my son. He's decided not to propose to Lady Alice. It seems he's decided to follow his heart – with my blessing.”

That – _can't_ be right. “But – his duty –”

“Is also to himself,” the king says.

Eliot shakes his head. “People like me,” he says. “We don't get the fairytale ending.”

“Well, I don't know about fairytales,” the king says, “except that my country happened to be made into one, and most of it was horribly wrong. And this isn't a fairytale, Eliot. Quentin – he wasn't going to marry her out of love, and it wasn't really about duty, either. Did he tell you why this gala means so much to him?”

“The – he cares about the hospital,” Eliot says.

“He cares about the hospital because of _me._ ” The king sighs. “I have – I was diagnosed with brain cancer. Q will be taking the throne, soon, because I don't know how much longer I'll be _me._ He wanted me to see him married, before – Well. He thinks that if Fillory had better hospitals, they would have caught it in time.”

Eliot's heart – it fucking _shatters_ at that. And it makes sense, now – why Quentin was so desperate for the gala to be a success. Even, maybe, another reason why he can't stand to say his country's name.

“Just. Think about coming,” the king says, handing Eliot the black, embossed souvenir program. It's a single card, with the names of the royal family in curling script, and at the bottom –

At the bottom, Kady has listed the _“Favourite Cocktails_ ” of the Prince and Countess. Lady Alice had apparently chosen Death in the Afternoon, which is – just, so much. And Quentin.

Quentin had chosen the drink Eliot had made for him, the _real_ first time they met. The time he prefers to remember.

“It's your choice, but. I think you'll regret it if you don't.”

The king leaves, and Eliot thinks about it.

He spends all _day_ thinking about it, into the night, and long after the gala has started. Bambi comes out of her room, eventually, and drops on the couch next to him to stare at the crowd of people in Times Square on the TV.

“You're not going either?” he asks. Margo shrugs, and suddenly, he's overcome with the need to _tell her._ “So I've been, apparently, wooing the prince.”

“Huh,” she says. “Funny coincidence. I may have kissed the Countess.”

 _Small fucking world,_ Eliot thinks. “We're a mess,” he says, and she hums an agreement.

On the screen, some shitty, overproduced band with too many banjos starts up a song to a crowd of screaming fans.

“You know, the king came by earlier,” he says. “Apparently the engagement's off. He thought I should go, but I –”

“ _What the fuck_?” Margo exclaims. “And you're not going?”

“What would be the point?” Eliot asks.

“You love him,” Bambi says, accusingly. “Don't fucking deny it, I know how you get. You _love him,_ and you're just going to –”

“What about you and the Countess?” Eliot counters. “I don't see you going to get her.”

“That's – that's _entirely_ different!” Margo cries. “Just – okay, _look._ Maybe it's not. So fuck it, I'm going to go get my girl. Question is: Are you coming with me to get your boy?”

* *

Downstairs, the party is in full swing.

Quentin can hear it echoing through the floorboards – the rhythmic thump of the music interspersed with enthusiastic shouts. He thinks that, maybe, he should feel guilty about staying in his little dressing-suite while the party he's, ostensibly, supposed to be hosting goes on without him, but. He's always sort of made a game of seeing how late he could get away with showing up, and how early he could escape somewhere quiet to read. Being a prince means the first is, generally, easy enough – and the second is nearly impossible.

He's also, if he's being honest, trying to avoid Alice. They'd spoken briefly, the night before, after Quentin's father left – Quentin had given her the dress for the gala, and Alice had thanked him, and they'd awkwardly retired to separate rooms – but in the morning, Quentin had left for Loria early and spent most of the day trying not to hover over Julia's shoulder.

Ultimately, he hadn't been very successful, because she'd banished him upstairs. When he'd crept back down a few minutes later to retrieve his messenger bag (and the books stowed inside) he'd caught a glimpse of Julia kissing the dark-haired bartender while the tall security guy held her around her waist. And Quentin, well –

Quentin's been thinking a lot about happiness, lately.

He's still thinking about it, in between wondering if he can get away with avoiding the party for just ten more minutes – twenty – an hour – when someone knocks on the door and pushes inside without bothering to wait for an answer.

Alice is wearing her mother's silver and opal tiara and a frown, and Quentin knows her well enough to know those those two things might be, at least, partially related. Her dress is a purplish-blue and he thinks, a few days ago, he'd be rushing to get his hands on it – on her – and add some far-too-conspicuous wrinkles. As it is – well, he still has _eyes._ But that desperate need isn't there, in the way it was. He realizes he doesn't miss it.

“Um,” he says, awkwardly. Alice shuts the door behind her. “Hi?”

“I think we need to talk,” she says, and Quentin sighs.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “We never should have come here.”

She gives him an odd look. “What are you talking about?”

Quentin flails his hands, a little awkwardly. “I mean. If we'd never come to New York. If we'd just stayed in Fillory. Would any of this have happened?” He knows the answer – if they'd stayed in Fillory, they'd be planning the wedding. The idea of it makes him feel – tight, like the walls are too close to him. But he'd think he was happy. There'd be no reason to think otherwise.

“Q,” Alice says, patiently – the tone she gets when she's trying to come off like she's defusing a fight. It almost never works, except to put Quentin on the defensive, which – yeah, that part's his fault. Still. “I'm _glad_ we came. If – if we hadn't, if we hadn't figured out that – then what? A broken engagement? A _divorce?_ Years down the line, maybe even after we had _kids_?”

“We – would've been happy,” Quentin says, even though he knows it's a lie. “I mean. We care about each other, right? We would've made it work.”

“But you don't love me,” she says, and the truth of it – it's one thing to _know_ it. It's one thing to hear his _father_ say it.

It's entirely another to hear it from _her._

“And I don't think I love you either,” she continues. “I changed here, too, and I'm _glad_ for it. I can be – I _want_ to be – so much more than your queen.”

Quentin sighs and drops his head into his hands. “I was still a jackass,” he says, and she laughs.

“Yeah, you were, a little. And I was a bitch, a little. It's okay.” She comes over to stand next to him and plucks his circlet off the vanity. He looks up at her, and she smiles crookedly. “Quentin Coldwater. Will you be my friend?”

He can't help smiling back at her. “I will,” he says, and she places the circlet on his head.

“Then stop moping and come down to your party,” she says, and sweeps out the door.

Ten more minutes, Quentin decides, as he touches the points of his crown and blinks back the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.

Just ten.

* *

They make it just in time, less than ten minutes before the clock is due to strike midnight. Eliot feels a little like Cinderella as he and Margo climb the steps to Loria, and he opens the door with a shaking hand.

He's stopped by Idri in the small foyer, and Margo goes on ahead, her stilettos clacking loudly against the floor as she stalks through the club for her target. Eliot shakes his head.

“Eliot,” Idri says, and he sighs.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I know we aren't – weren't – exclusive, but. You deserve better than the way I handled that.”

Idri laughs. “I understand,” he says. “You really are exceptionally beautiful, Eliot, and however this ends – you are always welcome in my bed. Your mouth honors me.” He pauses. “Well, most of the time.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says, and he lets Idri kiss him for what might be the last time before he heads into the party.

Margo has apparently located her Countess; they're against the wall, having what seems to be an intense conversation, and Eliot couldn't care less. He pushes through the crowd, searching for a flash of brown hair, a dimpled smile; he's so focused on the crowd he barely notices when someone grabs his sleeve until he's forcibly dragged backwards.

“Julia,” he says, glaring at the offender. “What the fuck?”

“He's upstairs,” Julia says, giving him a small, secretive smile. “Don't fuck it up.”

Fucking things up is – kind of what he does, but this time, he's determined not to be, well, himself. He's going to be brave. Like Quentin – who's ready to risk the displeasure of an entire nation because he –

Eliot scrambles up the stairs. The last thing he thinks before he pushes open the closed door at the top of the landing is that he wishes he'd had time to find a properly spectacular suit, and wasn't stuck wearing the plain tuxedo some long-ago sugar daddy had purchased for him.

But then he's standing in the doorway, and Quentin is there – in a formal military suit that's almost _Dictator Chic,_ except for the lack of medals, and that Eliot finds much hotter than he should – and he doesn't give a shit how he looks.

All that matters is that Quentin is _there_ , and he's looking at Eliot like a miracle, and Eliot never wants him to stop.

“Um. They're expecting me. Downstairs,” he says. “I've been hiding.”

Eliot laughs. “That doesn't surprise me,” he says. “Fuck, you – you look –” His hair is so soft, too, and he's wearing a silver circlet on his head, but Eliot can barely look at anything but Quentin's face, and Quentin's eyes.

“You, too,” he says, softly, and steps in close to him. “I – I think we should go down, though,” he says. “Because – if we stay here – I'm – I might –”

Eliot's definitely not against whatever Quentin thinks he _might_ do, but – sure, it's probably not. The best idea. Right now. So, because he's a _goddamn gentleman,_ he offers Quentin his arm and tries not to fucking lose his shit at the feeling of Quentin's hand clutching his wrist.

They make their way down carefully, and Eliot is vaguely aware that everyone is staring at them – mostly because he can feel Quentin start to panic, because he's barely aware of anything that isn't how warm Quentin is, pressed up against his side. Somehow, though, they reach the bottom without incident, and Eliot ducks his head to whisper, “ _dance with me?_ ” into Quentin's ear.

It's – impossible. It's utterly impossible, how he has this boy in his arms. Quentin is still a little freaked by all the attention and probably by the fact that he's dancing, at his gala, in front of _so many people_. He's also kind of a terrible dancer, so Eliot just sort of gets him to sway, in a manner that doesn't require much footwork.

“Come to Fillory with me,” Quentin says. “I think – I think we work. I want to find out, anyway. And uh – I'll be king soon, so. But I want you with me, when that happens.”

For a moment, Eliot starts to panic – but just as it hits, it dissipates, and he's able to nod. “Your father told me,” he says. “Why you care, so much, about the hospital.” Q shudders in his arms, and Eliot lets go of his shoulder to brush Q's hair out of his eyes. “I'm so, so sorry. And you're right. I want to find out if we work.”

“So – so you'll come? Back with us?”

Eliot laughs. “Well. I have to figure out the apartment. And pack my things. Which might take awhile.”

“I can stay in New York,” Quentin says. “Until you're ready. I can – I don't want you to change your mind.”

“I don't think there's a chance of that,” Eliot promises, smiling down at him. He's so fucking beautiful – how could he have possibly thought he could let him go? “We'll figure out the logistics of it. But – I love you.”

All of Quentin's face lights up, and he whispers it back, “I love you,” like it's the honest truth of him, and Eliot's never been happier than he is in this moment.

* *

“Countess!”

Alice spins around to see Margo stalking towards her. She's in skintight black pants and a red corset with a glittering gold brocade, and the sight of her almost stops Alice's breath.

“Um,” she says, and Margo presses her hands to Alice's shoulders.

“First,” Margo says, “That slit was a _brilliant_ idea. Your legs look fantastic.

Alice just. Stares at her. “Thanks?” she says, bewildered.

“Second. That prince of yours is in love with my best friend, and I had _no_ idea until today. And Eliot loves him back.”

“What's your point?” This entire conversation is just – making less and less sense, the more it goes on, and Alice hates that Margo's here reminding her of all the ways her life has fallen apart in less than a week.

“My _point_ is that. I hate having feelings. I generally – I just don't do that, okay? But. I like you, a lot. And I was – hoping, I guess.”

Alice sighs, as she realizes she's going to have to fucking _drag_ this out of her. “Hoping _what,_ exactly?”

“That – that maybe it wasn't just me,” Margo says, her voice softening. She looks – almost vulnerable, Alice realizes.

No,

No, she _is_ vulnerable. Which means.

“It wasn't just you,” Alice admits.

“What – so what does –”

“I have no idea.” Alice throws her hands up. “Fuck. Margo, I have _no idea_ what's happening, here. I thought I was going to marry the prince, and then that – all goes to hell, and that's probably a good thing because the way I felt with you, on the beach? I've _never_ felt like that with him. Or with anyone.”

Margo nods. “I haven't, either,” she says. “And – look, I get you need time to figure yourself out, and I don't want to just be a – a rebound for you. But. Maybe you can do that soul-searching here, in New York. And I can show you around.”

“I went to the Met yesterday,” Alice says. “It was. I'm not sure if it made me sad, or happy. But,” she reaches out, touches Margo's hand. “I know I would've liked it more if you were with me.”

“We can do that,” Margo promises. “You like museums? New York has _so many._ I think you'll particularly like the Spy Museum. And – and we can go to Coney Island again, in the spring, when the rides are open. I want to take you on the Wonder Wheel.”

That's – oddly specific, but it sounds nice. Sitting with Margo in the little car, staring out into the ocean – maybe even seeing the city skyline from the top. “Yeah,” she says. “We can.”

A waiter comes by with champagne glasses, then, and presses them into their hands. “Countdown's about to start,” he says.

Across the room, Alice can see Quentin dancing with Eliot, their bodies pressed close together. She thinks she should feel jealous, and she _does,_ but not because – not because she wants Quentin. Because she wants what he has. Maybe she'll find it with Margo, maybe she won't, but.

Margo was right, she thinks. She owes it to herself to try. And honestly, she could use a break from Fillory.

The countdown starts from Twenty, and Margo takes her hand. “It's good luck to start the New Year with a kiss,” she says, and Alice laughs.

“Alright, then,” she says. “For luck.”

“Happy New Year,” Margo says, and, as the cheers of the crowd surrounds them, she kisses her.

It feels like a promise.

* *

The shouting from the guests is the only clue Quentin gets that the New Year has arrived.

Well, that, and the wide, wonderful grin that splits across Eliot's face as he pulls Quentin in close – impossibly closer – and whispers, “Happy New Year, Q,” against Quentin's lips.

His lips feel like sparks as they kiss.


End file.
